Simon Hawke - The Pimpernel Plot

“Chauvelin, please-”

“Do not plead with me,” said Chauvelin. “It would be to no avail. I will make you a promise, however, on my honor. The day I know the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel, your brother’s self-incriminating letter will be in your hands and this copy I have made will have been destroyed. Help me to discover the Scarlet Pimpernel’s true identity and I will forget all about Armand’s involvement in this affair.”

“You are asking me to murder a man to save my brother,” Marguerite said.

“Consider the alternative,” said Chauvelin. “It is a question of bringing a criminal to justice or seeing your brother lose his head for his foolishness when you could have prevented it. You see?”

“I see that I have no choice.”

“We all do what we must,” said Chauvelin. “When you are at Lord Grenville’s ball, watch Andrew Ffoulkes. See who he comes in contact with. One of them will be the Pimpernel.” At that moment, Finn returned to his seat. Seeing Chauvelin sitting in his place, beginning to rise at his entrance, he said, “No, no, do not let me interrupt your conversation. Chauvelin, isn’t it? The French representative?”

Feeling slightly faint, Marguerite performed the introductions. The curtain was about to go up again and Chauvelin excused himself, saying that he looked forward to seeing them again at Lord Grenville’s ball. “It promises to be a memorable occasion,” he said.

Lord Grenville’s ball was, indeed, a memorable occasion. It was the highlight of the season. The grand rooms of the Foreign Office were exquisitely decorated with plants and art-works for the evening and there was a full orchestra on hand to play throughout the night. The Prince of Wales arrived together with the Blakeneys. On seeing the Comtesse de Tournay approaching with her children, Marguerite detached herself from the company, anxious to avoid another scene. She needn’t have worried. The comtesse totally ignored her as she swept past to pay her respects to the Prince of Wales.

“Ah, good evening to you, Comtesse,” the Prince of Wales said. “Allow me to express my joy at seeing you and your children safely in England.”

“You are most kind, Your Highness,” said the comtesse. “I only pray that my husband will soon be able to join us here.”

“I am sure that all here will join in that prayer,” the Prince of Wales said, somberly.

“Not all, Your Highness,” the comtesse said, as Chauvelin approached. She gave him an acid look.

“Your Highness,” said Chauvelin, bowing very slightly from the waist. “You are looking very well, Comtesse. The climate here seems to agree with you. I see that there is color in your cheeks.”

The comtesse ignored him. Lord Grenville looked ill at ease.

“Welcome, Citizen Chauvelin,” the Prince of Wales said, breaking the awkward silence. “I trust that our English climate will agree with you, as well. Though we may not be in sympathy with the government you represent, nevertheless you are as welcome here as are our friends, the Comtesse de Tournay and her two children, whose presence here pleases us immensely.”

“We owe our presence here to that gallant English gentleman, the Scarlet Pimpernel,” said the young vicomte loudly, with a pointed look at Chauvelin.

“Please,” said Lord Grenville, touching the boy on the elbow. “Let us try to remember that this evening is-”

“Do not concern yourself, Lord Grenville,” said Chauvelin. “I can quite understand the young man’s attitude for your fellow Englishman. The Scarlet Pimpernel is a name well known in France. We have as great an interest in this man of mystery as you English seem to have.”

“Everyone seems to be fascinated by this fellow,” Finn said. “He has become quite the rage on both sides of the Channel. I heard Sheridan say that he was thinking of writing a play about him. Perhaps he could use a bit of doggerel I’ve composed upon the subject. You might recommend it to him, Your Highness, if you find it amusing:

“We seek him here, we seek him there,

Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.

Is he in heaven? Is he in hell?

That demmed elusive Pimpernel.”

Grenville looked pained, but the Prince of Wales chuckled and slapped Finn on the back. “Excellent!” he said. “You must tell me how that goes again, Percy! What was it? We seek him here, we seek him there…”

Within moments, everyone was repeating it. The Blakeneyites were chanting it like a Greek chorus. Marguerite might have wondered at the imbecility of it all, but she had spotted Andrew Ffoulkes talking with Suzanne de Tournay and she felt a sudden tightness in her stomach.

Sometime during the evening, Ffoulkes would meet the Scarlet Pimpernel. If she did not help Chauvelin unmask this man, Armand was lost. If only she had been able to convince him to remain with her in England! He would now be safe and she would not be helpless in Chauvelin’s power. She would not have to betray a man whom all of England admired and respected. She watched Andrew Ffoulkes and felt that everyone could see that she was watching him. What if she could not help Chauvelin? How could she save her brother then?

Ffoulkes spoke with Suzanne for several minutes more, then parted company with her and started across the room. Marguerite’s gaze was riveted to him. As Ffoulkes crossed the ballroom, he passed Lord Hastings, who shook his hand and slapped him on the back before moving on. Marguerite stiffened. For a moment, she thought that she had seen Hastings give something to Ffoulkes. Yes, there it was, a note! Ffoulkes was putting it into his pocket, unaware that she had witnessed the brief exchange. Feeling lightheaded, Marguerite followed him. Could it be Lord Hastings? Was he the Pimpernel?

She followed Ffoulkes as he left the ballroom and entered a small drawing room which was, for the moment, empty. He closed the door behind him. Marguerite felt terrible. She was on the verge of being sick, but for Armand’s sake, she had to know what was written on that piece of paper. She waited a moment, then opened the door and entered the room. Ffoulkes was reading the note. He glanced up quickly, fearfully, then recovered and quickly lowered the note, attempting to make the gesture seem casual and inconsequential. He failed.

“Andrew! Goodness, you gave me a start,” she said. “I thought this room was empty. I simply had to get away from that throng for a short while. I was feeling a bit faint.” She sat down on the couch beside which he stood.

“Are you quite all right, Lady Blakeney?” he said. “Should I call Percy?”

“Goodness, no. Don’t make a fuss, I’m sure that I will be all right in just a moment.” She glanced around at him and saw that he was putting the note to the flame of a candle in a standing brass candelabra. She snatched it away from him before he realized what she intended.

“How thoughtful of you, Andrew,” she said, bringing the piece of paper up to her nose. “Surely your grandmother must have taught you that the smell of burnt paper was a sovereign remedy for giddiness.”

Ffoulkes looked aghast. He reached for the paper, but she held it away from him.

“You seem quite anxious to have it back,” she said, coyly. “What is it, I wonder? A note from some paramour?”

“Whatever it may be, Lady Blakeney,” Ffoulkes said, “it is mine. Please give it back to me.”

She gave him an arch look. “Why, Andrew, I do believe I’ve found you out! Shame on you for toying with little Suzanne’s affections while carrying on some secret flirtation on the side!” She stood up, holding the piece of paper close to her. “I have a mind to warn her about you before you break her heart.”

“That note does not concern Suzanne,” said Ffoulkes, “nor does it concern you. It is my own private business. I will thank you to give it back to me at once.”