“Believe it.” He pressed her close to him and she put her arms around him. “I know that it’s been very hard for you,” said Finn. “I know that I’ve been terribly unkind. I will make it up to you, I swear it. Look, we are home now. If I’m to try to help Armand, there are some matters I must see to. You must get some sleep. Try not to worry. Things will look better in the morning, you’ll see.”
The coach pulled up to the entrance of the mansion and Finn helped Marguerite out. She was unsteady on her feet. As the coachman drove the rig down to the stables, Finn hugged Marguerite and stroked her hair reassuringly. She clung to him tightly, desperately. After a moment, Finn held her away, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the knuckle of his index finger. Later, he wasn’t sure which of them initiated the kiss, but it lasted for a long time. When it was over, she gazed at him with an expression that was a mixture of happiness and confusion. She started to say something, but Finn put a finger against her lips.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Get some rest now. Leave everything to, me.”
12
In the morning, Marguerite awoke with a cry from a nightmare. She had been standing in the Place de la Revolution, all alone. It was dusk. The city was as quiet as a deserted forest clearing as she stared at the platform upon which stood the guillotine, its blade raised and ready to descend. From the distance, she could hear the creaking sound of wooden wheels and the slow clip-clop of a horse’s hooves upon the cobble-stones. A soft breeze began to blow, gaining in strength as the sound of the approaching tumbrel grew closer. Then the wooden cart entered the empty square. The wind was fierce now and she had to lean into it to stand upright. The tumbrel had no driver. The tired-looking horse moved slowly, ponderously, as though it found the load that it was pulling unbearably heavy.
Armand stood in the tumbrel, dressed simply in black britches and a white shirt that was open at the neck. His hands were bound behind him and his eyes were glazed. It was rapidly growing darker in the deserted square. The horse came to a stop almost in front of her and Armand, moving slowly, regally, stepped out of the tumbrel and began to climb the steps up to the platform. She wanted to say something, to call out to him, to run to him and stop him, but she was unable to move or speak. Armand stopped. He kneeled, then slowly bent over putting his head down…
She spun around, turning her back upon the sight, and was confronted with a crowd of people. The entire square was filled with people holding torches, hundreds, thousands of them, all looking at her. She recognized Chauvelin. He smiled, then pushed another man forward. The man stepped up to her, holding out a paper. She looked down at the paper he held out to her and saw that it was Armand’s letter. As she looked up, she saw that the man holding out the letter to her was the Marquis de St. Cyr. At that moment, she heard the sound of the blade descending. She covered her eyes. Something bumped against her feet. She opened her eyes and saw Armand’s head lying at her feet. His eyes were open and looking straight at her, accusingly. As she stared down in horror, his mouth opened and he said, “Why, Marguerite? Why did you not help me?”
She cried out and sat bolt upright in bed, clutching at her throat. She jumped out of bed and threw on a dressing gown, then ran downstairs. One of the servants started to approach her, but she ran past him into the dining room. Percy was not there. From the dining room, she ran to Percy’s den and flung open the door. The room was empty. She came into the den, looking around wildly, as though he might be hidden somewhere. He was an early riser, surely he could not still be sleeping! He had promised that he would…she looked down at the desk. She had leaned upon it and knocked over an inkwell. The ink was red. Lying on the surface of the desk was a signet ring. She picked it up. It was a design in the shape of a flower. She dipped the ring into the ink and pressed it down upon a piece of paper lying on the desktop. The imprint was the same as that she briefly saw on the note burned by Andrew Ffoulkes. It was the sign of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
The door to the den opened a little and the servant who had tried to speak with her moments earlier stuck his head in.
“Excuse me, Lady Blakeney, but there is a gentleman-”
“Come in,’ Marguerite said, dully, not having heard him.
“Milady, there is a gentleman, a messenger to see you. He insists upon speaking to you. I’ve left him waiting in the reception…Oh, dear, I see you’ve had a slight mishap. Allow me, my lady…”
He pulled out a handkerchief and began wiping up the spilled ink.
“A gentleman, you said?” said Marguerite, feeling numb.
“Yes, my lady. He was most insistent upon speaking only to you. I told him that you had not risen yet, but he said that he would wait.”
He picked up the signet ring which she had dropped upon the desk and began to wipe at it.
“Tell him that I will see him,” Marguerite said.
“Very well, mi- ouch!”
“What is it?”
“I seem to have pricked myself,” the servant said. He held up the ring. “There’s a tiny needle-” He collapsed onto the floor.
“Giles!” Marguerite was down by his side in an instant. She listened for his heartbeat. He was not dead. He seemed to be asleep. Carefully, she picked up the ring and looked at it. The top of the ring seemed to have been moved very slightly off center and now there was a small needle protruding from it Cautiously, she tried pressing on the sides of the ring. When her finger touched one point, the top of the ring slid back into position and the needle disappeared. She wrapped the ring inside a handkerchief and put it in her pocket, then left the room, closing the door behind her. She called for a servant.
“Have you seen my husband?” she said.
“Yes, milady. He left early this morning, shortly before dawn.”
“Before dawn! Did he say where he was going?”
“He did not tell me, milady. Perhaps the grooms might know?”
“Go and find out immediately,” she said. She hurried into the reception hall. A swarthy-looking man rose to his feet as she entered.
“Lady Blakeney?”
“Yes, what is it that you want?”
“I have been instructed to give you this from a gentleman named Chauvelin, a Frenchman-”
“Yes, I know him, give it to me!”
He handed her a letter. She quickly broke the seal. It was a note from Chauvelin and along with it was Armand’s letter. Chauvelin’s note read: You have discharged your service Citoyenne St. Just. Your brother will be safe. I leave for Dover this morning. Adieu. Chauvelin.
She continued staring at the note, oblivious now to the man’s presence.
“I have already been paid for my service, Lady Blakeney,” he said after a moment. “I will see myself out.”
He hesitated and, when she did not respond, gave her a slight bow and left. He passed the servant she had sent out to question the grooms as he left.
“Milady, the grooms report that your husband left for Dover, along with Master Lucas and Miss Andre.”
She crumpled the letter in her hand. So they are all in it together, she thought. Ffoulkes and Dewhurst, Hastings, Lucas, Andre, all of them. The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel-and she had betrayed them. She had told Chauvelin of the meeting Ffoulkes had had with the Pimpernel in the supper room at the Foreign Office, long after most of the guests had left and those few remaining were gathered in the parlor. Chauvelin had seen Ffoulkes meet the Pimpernel and now he was on his way to apprehend him the moment he set foot in France. They were riding directly into a trap and she had set it
“Tell the grooms to have my horse saddled at once,” she said.
“Your horse, milady? Would not the coach be-”
“Yes, my horse, damn you! Be quick about it!”
With Cobra’s chronoplate, they didn’t have to waste time sailing across the English Channel or riding to Paris. They clocked from Dover, where the agent had set up a temporary safehouse, directly to Calais.