I
The next morning’s sun rose more radiant than before. Marguerite greeted it with a sigh that was entirely a happy one. Another round of the clock had brought her a little nearer to the time when she would see her beloved. The next courier might indeed bring a message naming the very day when she could rest once more in his arms for a few brief hours, which were so like the foretaste of heaven.
Soon after breakfast she ordered her coach, intending to go to London in order to visit Lady Ffoulkes and give Sir Andrew the message which was contained for him in Percy’s last letter. Whilst waiting for the coach, she strolled out into the garden, which was gay with roses and blue larkspur, sweet william and heliotrope, alive with a deafening chorus of blackbirds and thrushes, the twittering of sparrows and the last call of the cuckoo. It was a garden brimful of memories, filled in rich abundance with the image of the man she worship. Every birdsong seemed to speak his name, the soughing of the breeze amidst the trees seemed to hold the echo of his voice; the perfume of thyme and mignonette to bring back the savour of his kiss.
Then suddenly she became aware of hurrying footsteps on the gravelled path close by. She turned, and saw a young man whom at first she did not recognise, running with breathless haste towards her. He was hatless, his linen crumpled, his coat-collar awry. At sight of her he gave a queer cry of excitement and relief.
“Lady Blakeney! Thank God! Thank God!”
Then she recognised him. It was Bertrand Moncrif.
He fell on his knees and seized her gown. He appeared entirely overwrought, unbalanced, and Marguerite tried in vain at first to get a coherent word out of him. All that he kept on repeating was:
“Will you help me? Will you help us all?”
“Indeed I will, if I can, M. Moncrif,” Marguerite said gently. “Do try and compose yourself and tell me what is amiss.”
She persuaded him to rise, and presently to follow her to a garden seat, where she sat down. He remained standing in front of her. His eyes still looked wild and scared, and he passed a shaking hand once or twice through his unruly hair. But he was obviously making an effort to compose himself, and after a little while, during which Marguerite waited with utmost patience, he began more coherently:
“Your servants said, milady,” he began more quietly, “that you were in the garden. I could not wait until they called you, so I ran to find you. Will you try and forgive me? I ought not to have intruded.”
“Of course I will forgive you,” Marguerite rejoined with a smile, “if you will only tell me what is amiss.”
He paused a moment, then cried abruptly:
“Régine has gone!”
Marguerite frowned, puzzled, and murmured slowly, not understanding:
“Gone? Whither?”
“To Dover,” he replied, “with Jacques.”
“Jacques?” she reiterated, still uncomprehending.
“Her brother,” he rejoined. “You know the boy?”
Marguerite nodded.
“Hotheaded, impulsive,” Moncrif went on, trying to speak calmly. “He and the girl Joséphine always had it in their minds that they were destined to liberate France from her present state of anarchy and bloodshed.”
“Like you yourself, M. Moncrif!” Marguerite put in with a smile.
“Oh, I became sobered, reasonable, when I realised how futile it all was. We all owe our lives to that noble Scarlet Pimpernel. They were no longer ours to throw away. At least, that was my theory, and Régine’s. I have been engaged in business; and she works hard … Oh, but you know!” he exclaimed impulsively.
“Yes, I know all your circumstances. But to the point, I pray you!”
“Jacques of late has been very excited, feverish. We did not know what was amiss. Régine and I oft spoke of him. And Mme. de Serval has been distraught with anxiety. She worships the boy. He is her only son. But Jacques would not say what was amiss. He spoke to no one. Went to his work every day as usual. Last night he did not come home. A message came for Mme. de Serval to say that a friend in London had persuaded him to go to the play and spend the night with him. Mme. de Serval thought nothing of that. She was pleased to think that Jacques had some amusement to distract him from his brooding thoughts. But Régine, it seems, was not satisfied. After her mother had gone to bed, she went into Jacque’s room; found some papers, it seems … letters … I know not … proof in fact that the boy was even then on his way to Dover, having made arrangements to take ship for France.”
“Mon Dieu!” Marguerite exclaimed involuntarily. “What senseless folly!”
“Ah! but that is not the worst. Folly, you say! But there is worse folly still!”
With the same febrile movements that characterised his whole attitude, he drew a stained and crumpled letter from his pocket.
“She sent me this, this morning,” he said. “That is why I came to you.”
“You mean Régine?” Marguerite asked, and took the letter which he was handing to her.
“Yes! She must have brought it round herself … to my lodgings … in the early dawn. I did not know what to do … whom to consult … A blind instinct brought me here … I have no other friend …”
In the meanwhile Marguerite was deciphering the letter, turning a deaf ear to his ramblings.
“My Bertrand,” so the letter ran, “Jacques is going to France. Nothing will keep him back. He says it is his duty. I think that he is mad, and I know that it will kill maman. So I go with him. Perhaps at the last—at Dover—my tears and entreaties might yet prevail. If not, and he puts this senseless project in execution, I can watch over him there, and perhaps save him from too glaring a folly. We go by coach to Dover, which starts in an hour’s time. Farewell, my beloved, and forgive me for causing you the anxiety; but I feel that Jacques has more need of me than you.”
Below the signature “Régine de Serval” there were a few more lines, written as if with an afterthought:
“I have told maman that my employer is sending me down into the country about some dresses for an important customer, and that as Jacques can get a few days’ leave from his work, I am taking him with me, for I feel the country air would do him good.
“Maman will be astonished and no doubt hurt that Jacques did not send her word of farewell, but it is best that she should not learn the truth too suddenly. If we do not return to Dover within the week, you will have to break the news as gently as you can.”
Whilst Marguerite read the letter, Bertrand had sunk upon the seat and buried his head in his hands. He looked utterly dejected and forlorn, and she felt a twinge of remorse at thought how she had been wronging him all this while by doubting his love for Régine. She placed a kindly hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“What was your idea,” she asked, “in coming to me? What can I do?”
“Give me advice, milady!” he implored. “I am so helpless, so friendless. When I had the letter, I could think of nothing at first. You see, Régine and Jacques started early this morning, by the coach from London, long before I had it. I thought you could tell me what to do, how to overtake them. Régine loves me—oh, she loves me! If I knelt at her feet I could bring her back. But they are marked people, those two. The moment they attempt to enter Paris, they will be recognised, arrested. Oh, my God! have mercy on us all!”
“You think you can persuade Régine, M. Moncrif?”
“I am sure,” he asserted firmly. “And you, milady! Régine thinks the whole world of you!”
“But there is the boy—Jacques!”
“He is just a child—he acted on impulse—and I always had great authority over him. And you, milady! The whole family worship you! … they know what they owe you. Jacques has not thought of his mother; but if he did—”
Marguerite rose without another word.
“Very well,” she said simply. “We go together and see what we can do with those two obstinate young folk.”
Bertrand gave a gasp of surprise and of hope. His whole face lighted up and he gazed upon the beautiful woman before him as a worshipper would on his divinity.
“You, milady?” he murmured. “You would … really … help me … like that?”
Marguerite smiled.
“I really would help you like that,” she said. “My coach is ordered; we can start at once. We’ll get relays at Maidstone and at Ashford, and easily reach Dover tonight, before the arrival of the public coach. In any case, I know every one of any importance in Dover. We could not fail to find the runaways.”
“But you are an angel, milady!” Bertrand contrived to stammer, although obviously he was overwhelemed with gratitude.
“You are ready to start?” Marguerite retorted, gently checking any further display of emotion.
He certainly was hatless, and his clothes were in an untidy condition; but such trifles mattered nothing at a moment like this. Marguerite’s household, on the other hand, were accustomed to these sudden vagaries and departures of their mistress, either for Dover, Bath, or any known and unknown destination, often at a few minutes’ notice.
In this case the coach was actually at the gates. The maids packed the necessary valise; her ladyship changed her smart gown for a dark travelling one, and less than half an hour after Bertrand Moncrif’s first arrival at the Manor, he was searted beside Lady Blakeney in her coach. The coachman cracked his whip, the postilion swung himself into the saddle, and the servants stood at attention as the vehicle slowly swung out of the gates; and presently, the horses putting on the pace, disappeared along the road, followed by a cloud of dust.