The Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy (story reading .TXT) 📕

Marguerite strolled through the grounds with a light foot, and anon reached the monumental gates, through which the exquisite peace and leafy solitude of the Park seemed to beckon insistently to her. The gate was on the latch; she slipped through and struck down a woodland path bordered by tangled undergrowth and tall bracken, and thus reached the pond, when suddenly she perceived Mme. de Fontenay.

Theresia was dressed in a clinging gown of diaphanous black silk, which gave value to the exquisite creamy whiteness of her skin and to the vivid crimson of her lips. She wore a transparent shawl round her shoulders, which with the new-modish, high-waisted effect of her gown, suited her sinuous grace to perfection. But she wore no jewellery, no ornaments of any kind: only a magnificent red rose at her breast.

The sight of her at this place and at this hour was so unexpected that, to Marguerite’s super-sensitive intuition, the appearance of this beautiful woman, strolling listless and alone beside the water’s edge, seemed like a presage of evil. Her first instinct had been to run away before Mme. de Fontenay was aware of her presence; but the next moment she chided herself for this childish cowardice, and stood her ground, waiting for the other woman to draw near.

A minute or two later, Theresia had looked up and in her turn had perceived Marguerite. She did not seem surprised, rather came forward with a glad little cry, and her two hands outstretched.

“Milady!” she exclaimed. “Ah, I see you at last! I have oft wondered why we never met.”

Marguerite took her hands, greeted her as warmly as she could. Indeed she did her best to appear interested and sympathetic.

Mme. de Fontenay had not much to relate. She had found refuge in the French convent of the Assumption at Twickenham, where the Mother Superior had been an intimate friend of her mother’s in the happy olden days. She went out very little, and never in society. But she was fond of strolling in this beautiful Park. The sisters had told her that Lady Blakeney’s beautiful house was quite near. She would have liked to call⁠—but never dared⁠—hoping for a chance rencontre which hitherto had never come.

She asked kindly after milor, and seemed to have heard a rumour that he was at Brighton, in attendance on his royal friend. Of her husband, Mme. de Fontenay had as yet found no trace. He must be living under an assumed name, she thought⁠—not doubt in dire poverty⁠—Theresia feared it, but did not know⁠—would give worlds to find out.

Then she asked Lady Blakeney whether she knew aught of the de Servals.

“I was so interested in them,” she said, “because I had heard something of them while I was in Paris, and seeing that we arrived in England the same day, though under such different circumstances. But we could not journey to London together, as you, milady, so kindly suggested, because I was very ill the next day⁠ ⁠… Ah, can you wonder?⁠ ⁠… A kind friend in Dover took care of me. But I remember their name, and have oft marvelled if we should ever meet.”

Yes; Marguerite did see the de Servals from time to time. They rented a small cottage not very far from here⁠—just outside of town. One of the daughters, Régine, was employed all day at the fashionable dressmaker’s in Richmond. The younger girl, Joséphine, and the boy, Jacques, was doing work in a notary’s office. It was all very dreary for them, but their courage was marvellous; and though the children did not earn much, it was sufficient for their wants.

Madame de Fontenay was vastly interested. She hoped that Régine’s marriage with the man of her choice would bring a ray of real happiness into the household.

“I hope so too,” Lady Blakeney assented.

“Milady has seen the young man⁠—Régine’s fiancé?”

“Oh, yes! once or twice. But he is engaged in business all day, it seems. He is inclined to be morbid and none too full of ardour. It is a pity; for Régine is a sweet girl and deserves happiness.”

“We have so much sorrow in common,” she said with a pathetic smile. “So many misfortunes. We ought to be friends.”

Then she gave a slight little shiver.

“The weather is extraordinarily cold for July,” she said. “Ah, how one misses the glorious sunshine of France!”

She wrapped her thin, transparent shawl closer round her shoulders. She was delicate, she explained. Always had been. She was a child of the South, and fully expected the English climate would kill her. In any case, it was foolish of her to stand thus talking, when it was so cold.

After which she took her leave, with a gracious inclination of the head and a cordial au revoir. Then she turned off into a small path under the trees, cut through the growing bracken; and Marguerite watched the graceful figure thoughtfully, until the leafy undergrowth hid her from view.

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