In a moment the pleasant oak-raftered coffee-room of the inn became thescene of hopeless confusion and discomfort. At the first announcementmade by the stable boy, Lord Antony, with a fashionable oath, had jumpedup from his seat and was now giving many and confused directions to poorbewildered Jellyband, who seemed at his wits' end what to do.
"For goodness' sake, man," admonished his lordship, "try to keepLady Blakeney talking outside for a moment while the ladies withdraw.Zounds!" he added, with another more emphatic oath, "this is mostunfortunate."
"Quick Sally! the candles!" shouted Jellyband, as hopping about fromone leg to another, he ran hither and thither, adding to the generaldiscomfort of everybody.
The Comtesse, too, had risen to her feet: rigid and erect, trying tohide her excitement beneath more becoming SANG-FROID, she repeatedmechanically,--
"I will not see her!--I will not see her!"
Outside, the excitement attendant upon the arrival of very importantguests grew apace.
"Good-day, Sir Percy!--Good-day to your ladyship! Your servant, SirPercy!"--was heard in one long, continued chorus, with alternate morefeeble tones of--"Remember the poor blind man! of your charity, lady andgentleman!"
Then suddenly a singularly sweet voice was heard through all the din.
"Let the poor man be--and give him some supper at my expense."
The voice was low and musical, with a slight sing-song in it, anda faint SOUPCON of foreign intonation in the pronunciation of theconsonants.
Everyone in the coffee-room heard it and paused instinctively, listeningto it for a moment. Sally was holding the candles by the opposite door,which led to the bedrooms upstairs, and the Comtesse was in the act ofbeating a hasty retreat before that enemy who owned such a sweet musicalvoice; Suzanne reluctantly was preparing to follow her mother, whilecasting regretful glances towards the door, where she hoped still to seeher dearly-beloved, erstwhile school-fellow.
Then Jellyband threw open the door, still stupidly and blindly hoping toavert the catastrophe, which he felt was in the air, and the same low,musical voice said, with a merry laugh and mock consternation,--
"B-r-r-r-r! I am as wet as a herring! DIEU! has anyone ever seen such acontemptible climate?"
"Suzanne, come with me at once--I wish it," said the Comtesse,peremptorily.
"Oh! Mama!" pleaded Suzanne.
"My lady . . . er . . . h'm! . . . my lady! . . ." came in feeble accentsfrom Jellyband, who stood clumsily trying to bar the way.
"PARDIEU, my good man," said Lady Blakeney, with some impatience, "whatare you standing in my way for, dancing about like a turkey with a sorefoot? Let me get to the fire, I am perished with the cold."
And the next moment Lady Blakeney, gently pushing mine host on one side,had swept into the coffee-room.
There are many portraits and miniatures extant of Marguerite St.Just--Lady Blakeney as she was then--but it is doubtful if any of thesereally do her singular beauty justice. Tall, above the average, withmagnificent presence and regal figure, it is small wonder that even theComtesse paused for a moment in involuntary admiration before turningher back on so fascinating an apparition.
Marguerite Blakeney was then scarcely five-and-twenty, and her beautywas at its most dazzling stage. The large hat, with its undulating andwaving plumes, threw a soft shadow across the classic brow with theaureole of auburn hair--free at the moment from any powder; the sweet,almost childlike mouth, the straight chiselled nose, round chin, anddelicate throat, all seemed set off by the picturesque costume of theperiod. The rich blue velvet robe moulded in its every line the gracefulcontour of the figure, whilst one tiny hand held, with a dignity allits own, the tall stick adorned with a large bunch of ribbons whichfashionable ladies of the period had taken to carrying recently.
With a quick glance all around the room, Marguerite Blakeney had takenstock of every one there. She nodded pleasantly to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,whilst extending a hand to Lord Antony.
"Hello! my Lord Tony, why--what are YOU doing here in Dover?" she saidmerrily.
Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned and faced the Comtesse andSuzanne. Her whole face lighted up with additional brightness, as shestretched out both arms towards the young girl.
"Why! if that isn't my little Suzanne over there. PARDIEU, littlecitizeness, how came you to be in England? And Madame too?"
She went up effusive to them both, with not a single touch ofembarrassment in her manner or in her smile. Lord Tony and Sir Andrewwatched the little scene with eager apprehension. English though theywere, they had often been in France, and had mixed sufficiently with theFrench to realise the unbending hauteur, the bitter hatred with whichthe old NOBLESSE of France viewed all those who had helped to contributeto their downfall. Armand St. Just, the brother of beautiful LadyBlakeney--though known to hold moderate and conciliatory views--wasan ardent republican; his feud with the ancient family of St. Cyr--therights and wrongs of which no outsider ever knew--had culminated in thedownfall, the almost total extinction of the latter. In France, St.Just and his party had triumphed, and here in England, face to face withthese three refugees driven from their country, flying for their lives,bereft of all which centuries of luxury had given them, there stood afair scion of those same republican families which had hurled down athrone, and uprooted an aristocracy whose origin was lost in the dim anddistant vista of bygone centuries.
She stood there before them, in all the unconscious insolence of beauty,and stretched out her dainty hand to them, as if she would, by that oneact, bridge over the conflict and bloodshed of the past decade.
"Suzanne, I forbid you to speak to that woman," said the Comtesse,sternly, as she placed a restraining hand upon her daughter's arm.
She had spoken in English, so that all might hear and understand; thetwo young English gentlemen, as well as the common innkeeper andhis daughter. The latter literally gasped with horror at this foreigninsolence, this impudence before her ladyship--who was English, now thatshe was Sir Percy's wife, and a friend of the Princess of Wales to boot.
As for Lord Antony and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, their very hearts seemed tostand still with horror at this gratuitous insult. One of them utteredan exclamation of appeal, the other one of warning, and instinctivelyboth glanced hurriedly towards the door, whence a slow, drawly, notunpleasant voice had already been heard.
Alone among those present Marguerite Blakeney and the Comtesse deTournay had remained seemingly unmoved. The latter, rigid, erect anddefiant, with one hand still upon her daughter's arm, seemed the verypersonification of unbending pride. For the moment Marguerite's sweetface had become as white as the soft fichu which swathed her throat, anda very keen observer might have noted that the hand which held the tall,beribboned stick was clenched, and trembled somewhat.
But this was only momentary; the next instant the delicate eyebrows wereraised slightly, the lips curved sarcastically upwards, the clear blueeyes looked straight at the rigid Comtesse, and with a slight shrug ofthe shoulders--
"Hoity-toity, citizeness," she said gaily, "what fly stings you, pray?"
"We are in England now, Madame," rejoined the Comtesse, coldly, "and Iam at liberty to forbid my daughter to touch your hand in friendship.Come, Suzanne."
She beckoned to her daughter, and without another look at MargueriteBlakeney, but with a deep, old-fashioned curtsey to the two young men,she sailed majestically out of the room.
There was silence in the old inn parlour for a moment, as the rustle ofthe Comtesse's skirts died away down the passage. Marguerite, rigid asa statue followed with hard, set eyes the upright figure, as itdisappeared through the doorway--but as little Suzanne, humble andobedient, was about to follow her mother, the hard, set expressionsuddenly vanished, and a wistful, almost pathetic and childlike lookstole into Lady Blakeney's eyes.
Little Suzanne caught that look; the child's sweet nature went outto the beautiful woman, scarcely older than herself; filial obediencevanished before girlish sympathy; at the door
she turned, ran back toMarguerite, and putting her arms round her, kissed her effusively; thenonly did she follow her mother, Sally bringing up the rear, with a finalcurtsey to my lady.
Suzanne's sweet and dainty impulse had relieved the unpleasant tension.Sir Andrew's eyes followed the pretty little figure, until it had quitedisappeared, then they met Lady Blakeney's with unassumed merriment.
Marguerite, with dainty affection, had kissed her hand to the ladies, asthey disappeared through the door, then a humorous smile began hoveringround the corners of her mouth.
"So that's it, is it?" she said gaily. "La! Sir Andrew, did you ever seesuch an unpleasant person? I hope when I grow old I sha'n't look likethat."
She gathered up her skirts and assuming a majestic gait, stalked towardsthe fireplace.
"Suzanne," she said, mimicking the Comtesse's voice, "I forbid you tospeak to that woman!"
The laugh which accompanied this sally sounded perhaps a trifled forcedand hard, but neither Sir Andrew nor Lord Tony were very keen observers.The mimicry was so perfect, the tone of the voice so accuratelyreproduced, that both the young men joined in a hearty cheerful "Bravo!"
"Ah! Lady Blakeney!" added Lord Tony, "how they must miss you at theComedie Francaise, and how the Parisians must hate Sir Percy for havingtaken you away."
"Lud, man," rejoined Marguerite, with a shrug of her graceful shoulders,"'tis impossible to hate Sir Percy for anything; his witty sallies woulddisarm even Madame la Comtesse herself."
The young Vicomte, who had not elected to follow his mother in herdignified exit, now made a step forward, ready to champion the Comtesseshould Lady Blakeney aim any further shafts at her. But before he couldutter a preliminary word of protest, a pleasant though distinctly inanelaugh, was heard from outside, and the next moment an unusually tall andvery richly dressed figure appeared in the doorway.
CHAPTER VI AN EXQUISITE OF '92
The Scarlet Pimpernel Page 5
