Simon Hawke - The Pimpernel Plot

He stepped forward quickly, trying to grab the note from her, but she backed away and, as if by accident, knocked over a candle stand.

“Oh! Andrew, the candles! Quick, before the drapes catch fire!”

The bottom of the drapes did begin to burn, but Ffoulkes moved quickly and smothered the flames. While he did so she quickly glanced at the note. Part of it had been burned away, but she could read:

“I start myself tomorrow. If you wish to speak with me again, I shall be in the supper room at one o’clock, precisely.”

It was signed with a small red flower.

She quickly lowered the note before Ffoulkes turned around.

“I’m sorry, Andrew,” she said. “My playful foolishness almost caused an accident. Here, have your note back and forgive me for teasing you about it.”

She held it out to him and he took it quickly, putting it to the flame once more and this time burning it completely.

“Think nothing of it,” he said. He smiled. “I should not have reacted as strongly as I did and it’s of no importance. No harm’s been done.” He smiled at her and then his look changed to one of concern. “I say, you really don’t look well.”

“It’s nothing, I’m just a little dizzy,” she said. “I think perhaps I should step outside and get a little air. Don’t bother about me, Andrew, I will be fine.”

“You’re quite certain?”

“Oh, yes, it’s really nothing. You go on, enjoy yourself. I will return presently.”

She left the drawing room and started toward the exit, making sure to catch Chauvelin’s eye on her way. He raised his eyebrows and she nodded. He returned her nod, then turned to talk to someone. Marguerite went outside.

Well, in a few moments, it will be done, she thought. Chauvelin will have the information that will help him learn the true identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel and Armand will be saved. And I will have sent another man to his death. She heard a step behind her and turned to face Chauvelin.

“You’re being uncharacteristically silent tonight,” Finn said to Marguerite as they drove back to Richmond in their coach. He had resolved to face his feelings for her head-on and deal with the situation as best he could. The relationship between them had warmed over the past several days, but now it was Marguerite who was acting withdrawn. “Is something wrong?”

She hesitated for a moment, then the words all came out in a torrent.

“It’s Armand,” she said. “He is in terrible danger and I don’t know what I can do to save him. I fear for his life.”

Finn frowned. “You seem quite friendly with the French representative, Chauvelin. Perhaps he can do something?”

She shook her head. “It is Chauvelin who holds Armand’s life in the palm of his hand,” she said. “He has put a terrible price upon it. To save Armand, I would have to condemn another man. I fear that I have already done so. I could not live with the death of yet another on my conscience!”

“Ah,” said Finn, softly. “I see. You mean the Marquis de St. Cyr.”

Marguerite began to weep. The stress of the past two days finally took its toll and she began to shake uncontrollably, unable to hold anything back.

“I never meant for him to die,” she said, her fingers clutching spasmodically at her dress. “In anger, I spoke out against him, wanting to hurt him because he had hurt Armand. You should have seen him! When I found him that day, beaten nearly beyond recognition… Yes, I wanted to hurt St. Cyr, God help me, but I did not want him to die!”

“Marguerite-”

“After the trial, I did everything I could to try to save him and his family. I begged and pleaded, I humbled myself before the tribunal, I went to all my influential friends, but it was all to no avail. As if the burden of the guilt were not enough, I have had to live with all the gossip and the scorn, hated by my old friends, distrusted by others who believed me to be an informer. Then I met you. I thought that with you, I had another chance. A chance for a new life in England, where no one knew me and perhaps I could forget what I had done, but no, my infamy followed me to London. I never had that chance. I see loathing in the faces of the French aristocrats who have come here. I know your friends speak about me behind my back and I know that you have heard all of the stories and despise me for what I have done. When all of this is over, you will despise me more!”

Finn leaned over and took Marguerite by the shoulders. “I do not despise you, Marguerite. Whatever else you may think of me, I want you to believe that. I am not without some influence in France and I have powerful friends in London. I will do what I can.”

“How could you possibly-”

“I said that I would help,” said Finn, “and I will. Trust in me. Armand will be safe. I promise.”

“If I could only believe that!”

“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.”

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?”