“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.”
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 mish
ap. 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.”