Blakeney, having conveyed Marguerite back to England, left almost immediately for France once again. The last rescue which the Scarlet Pimpernel undertook, though perhaps less spectacular than the others, was nevertheless one of the riskiest, for it entailed the rescue not of a Frenchman this time, but of an Englishman who had got himself entangled with the New Republican Government.

Young William Wordsworth, at that time an undergraduate at Cambridge, had joined a society known as the "Young Oxford Republicans," and was one of the moving spirits of that fellowship of young political enthusiasts whose spirit is expressed in his remarkable poem on the French Revolution. As a member of this society, Wordsworth made three trips in all to France, only two of which are recorded in his biographies, namely in 1790, 1791 and lastly in 1794. It appears that he viewed the political situation through the rosy spectacles of those young Oxford republicans, and that on his second visit he showed open sympathy with the party known as the Girondins.

On his third visit in 1794, he seems to have thrown all moderation to the winds and formed a friendship with Robespierre and his gang ­ a friendship which naturally involved him in their downfall. After the revolution of Thermidor, he was arrested along with all the other members of Robespierre's party and would no doubt have shared their fate, had not his relatives made a direct appeal on his behalf to the Scarlet Pimpernel.

As to the exact details of the rescue of Wordsworth by Sir Percy Blakeney, there is but scant information available, for Blakeney went to France unaccompanied and effected the rescue unaided. That it occurred through his instrumentality is proved by a letter which he wrote to Ffoulkes soon after the event and which runs:

"Dear Ffoulkes,

"I felt that I could not leave the young fool to that horrible fate though, as you know, I have no sympathy for those idiotic clubs which have sprung up mushroom-like in England and Germany, in imitation of the foul nests in Paris we know so well. By Gad, it was one of the toughest nuts I ever cracked. The young man was no easy protégé for he breathed fire and brimstone at me. He seemed as if he wanted to be guillotined! They are all alike, those hot-heads, when, ostrich-like they bury their heads in new creeds they do not understand. But rescued he was, though do not ask me how. Chauvelin, as you know, has suffered the death penalty for his many misdeeds. My only regret is that I shall never measure wits against him again. He was an engaging scoundrel."

The winter of 1795, saw the Blakeneys definitely established in their house in the Crescent at Bath.

Sir Percy was now faced with the sad duty of releasing his followers from their oath. That gallant band of sportsmen who had so ably, so fearlessly, so selflessly seconded his adventurous expeditions, the wild rides through the night with trembling children or frightened women in one's arms, the hair's-breadth escapes and perilous gallops across country would henceforth be but memories.

The Scarlet Pimpernel would be only a name ­ a glorious and noble name, it is true ­ the name of a small wild flower, faded, and pressed among the leaves of the book of the past. Little did Sir Percy dream that a century later the mere mention of the name, the mere sight of the tiny five-petalled flower in the hedgerows would recall to every romantic mind the glories of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel and of its gallant chief: that the records of his deeds would be eagerly read and recounted all the world over, as an example of courage and of daring, without parallel of self-sacrifice and of humility.

Sir Percy Blakeney felt the poignancy of this last meeting, which had been fixed for an afternoon in April, more deeply than he himself cared to admit. He was loath to let his little band of stalwarts go, hoping, perhaps, that some day in the near future they could unite once again for other daring adventures. But, for the nonce, they must be relieved of their oath of obedience and loyalty and a hand-clasp would be the final signal for the disbandment of the League: and with it, of all that it had stood for in his mind, the joy of living, unswerving courage and absolute loyalty.

His friends had of late begun to notice that Blakeney's character had altered during these months of inaction; the change, they felt, was apparent in the absence of his former unfailing good temper and gaiety. Except when in company or at cards, he seemed to have lost that spontaneous good humour which had, in the past, contributed so greatly to his enormous popularity. Not that he ever grew morose or behaved with less charm than before, but his joyous laugh was heard to echo less and less frequently and it often struck the ear as harsh and forced. He was obviously fretting for those thrills which had for so long been the very breath of his life and he now found himself utterly unable to envisage a future which did not hold, if not danger, at least adventure.

Bereft of the exciting interest in life, he was like a man who has been forced to retire from active business and who has no hobbies or work to take the place of strenuous occupation. Those who knew him best and those who loved him the most could discern a far-away look in the lazy blue eyes when insistent memory caused him to relive the past, or imagination conjured up fresh visions of exploits as thrilling as they had been in the past. And ever and anon he would surreptitiously glance at the scar, in the shape of an "M," which had been branded on his right forearm. 

All the morning of that fateful day, he was in a fever, pacing up and down the room like a caged lion, hardly realizing that, indeed, this was the end of all that he had held so dear. Even the tender solicitude of his wife, and her efforts at cheerfulness, failed to alleviate his heartache and pain of a bitter regret. By the afternoon, he was in a state of real misery and for once felt a coward, dreading to meet his friends.

Marguerite wrote apropos of this final interview to Lady Anthony Dewhurst.

"My dear little Yvonne,

"Do not grieve any more for my lord Anthony. He will be with you anon, never, please God, to desert you again. You, so wrapt up in the idyll which gives you so much happiness and which the Scarlet Pimpernel made possible, have, it seems, not yet realized that those ghastly horrors are now but nightmares of the past and that, therefore, your husband is safe from those dangers that at one time threatened his life. As you know, the members of the League met here yesterday for the last time. Their chief had summoned them in order to bid them all good-bye ­ Good-bye that is as fellow-adventurers, but never good-bye as friends. 

"Sir Percy is in a pathetic state and I hardly dare to say aught to rouse his drooping spirits. I, who love him so well, and suffered such terrible heartache every time he left me, could almost wish myself back in the days of peril. On more than one occasion, I have discerned suspicious moisture in his eyes! Sir Andrew told me after the interview that they were all deeply moved and that Sir Percy was hardly able to speak. It is now all over, a thing of the past, but I, for one, shall keep the memory of the Scarlet Pimpernel alive, and I shall hope to recount, one day, to his as yet unborn child, the prowess of his father.

"Sir Andrew and his wife are to remain with us here in Bath for a few days, a happy inspiration which I heartily support; perhaps the presence of his greatest friend will tend to soften the blow and help to bring him back to everyday life.

"I pray that we shall meet shortly at Richmond, whither we shall return as soon as the climate permits, but I fear me that Bath will hold our attraction for some time yet, since H.R.H. is still here and continually commands our presence. 

"You very affectionate friend,
Marguerite Blakeney."

There is also an interesting extract in the journal of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes.

"April 17th, 1795. Of course, we all knew that the summons would come sooner or later. The S.P. (I cannot help calling him that still) had touched upon the subject of the League's dissolution on the fateful day when he sallied forth on that great adventure which helped to bring about the downfall of Robespierre. But I must admit that I did not expect the blow to fall quite so soon. Found that I was one of the last to arrive with Hastings, Barstow and Mackenizie. Blakeney appeared to be his usual self. We handed him back the copies of our signed agreements, and in a few words, the S.P. told us that we were now free of any oath or obligation to which we had pledged ourselves. We drank to the past, the present and the future. I do not think that Percy spoke more than ten consecutive words after that. So ends our glamorous life of adventure! If it were not a blasphemy I would almost wish for another revolution, that would call us back to arms under the leadership of the Scarlet Pimpernel. I am now mightily glad that I kept some of his notes and papers so that our son, when he comes, shall know about him!"

The year 1795 ended with the London disturbances in which Sir Percy Blakeney played a not inconspicuous part. The Royal opening of Parliament was fixed for ten in the morning of October 29th and Blakeney, moved partly by his friendship for Pitt ­ a friendship which had never suffered by the years between ­ and partly by the insistence of the Prince who desired his presence on that occasion, drove out in the wake of the Royal procession. The crowd, however, was out of hand; whistles and cat-calls greeted the approach of the Royal cortège, and stones were actually thrown at the carriages.

On the return of the cortège from the House of Parliament, more stones were hurled and one broke the window of Sir Percy's coach and landed on Marguerite's lap. Sir Percy rose to the occasion. Having stopped the carriage, he stepped out into the road and faced the angry crowd with a smile on his lips and a glint in his eyes which boded ill for the culprit. Surveying the spectators through his spy-glass, he loudly demanded to know who had the demmed cheek to hurl a stone at his coach and to frighten his lady, and whether the culprit would care to oppose him for three rounds. There was a murmuring, much giggling and a few boos and shouts. At last a veritable giant of the typical cockney type stepped forth from the crowd, mocking the dandy and shaking his fist in Sir Percy's face. With a sudden dexterous movement, reminiscent of citizen Lenoir, Blakeney picked the man up with one hand as if he were a sack of potatoes and, advancing a few paces towards the row of now silent and awestruck spectators, he threw the body back to them, knocking many down with the sudden impact.

"La, my fine fellows," he cried, laughing; "you will have to find a more worthy champion of your cause if you hope for success. Try again! My offer still holds good for three rounds!"

But no one took up the challenge. They all stood agape, gazing open-mouthed at the dandy as he stepped back into his coach, not having turned a hair in the swift encounter; and the carriage drove away amid cheers!

That Christmas saw the Blakeney's still at Bath, gracing with their brilliance and their wit the many balls and routs of the season. Sir Percy, no doubt, chafed often at the routine and boredom of this social round of functions for which he had invented in the past such an effective antidote. He contrived, however, to recapture some of its glamour when, at the request of the Prince of Wales, he was made to recount some of the now almost legendary feats of the Scarlet Pimpernel whom he was supposed to have known intimately.

"Thus did he relieve the monotony of these dull days," says Sir Andrew Ffoulkes of his life-long friend, "by living again in the stories which he told, some of our most exciting adventures. He told them with that wonderful restraint and sense of humour which was his most delightful characteristic, always exalting the prowess of the League as a whole and belittling that of its leader. So much so, indeed, that spiteful tongues began to wag, and accuse him of jealousy, and even went the length of hinting that the mysterious adventurer whom Blakeney was at such pains to disparage, had incurred his displeasure by arousing a sense of hero-worship in the heart of his beautiful wife."

All of which must have been a source of delight to Blakeney himself. In his usual indolent way, he allowed those spiteful shafts to be aimed at him in public, for it gave him an opportunity of sharpening his ever-ready, caustic wit at the expense of his detractors.

But it was not to be wondered at that this intimate knowledge which Sir Percy Blakeney seemed to have of the Scarlet Pimpernel caused a veritable storm of gossip in social circles. He was pestered with enquiries anent the identity of the enigmatic hero; bets were made as to whom would be the lucky one to extract information from him. But though the necessity for anonymity was now past, neither Blakeney himself, nor any of his followers, ever betrayed the secret to which they had at one time pledged themselves. And it was a strange fact, though obviously a true one, that the skipper and crew of the Daydream guarded that secret every bit as jealously as did the members of the League.

Thanks to Sir Percy's wonderful generosity, these men were no doubt more than well-off and well provided for: the skipper, by now, was probably a rich man: but even so, tribute must be paid to the discretion of, perhaps, half a hundred men, every one of whom could have gained immense popularity in public bars and eating houses, by recounting some of the adventures in which the Daydream had a share.

To the repeated enquiries leveled at Blakeney in all classes of society, he gave evasive replies. So did the members of the League, and so did the skipper and the crew of the yacht. The only true information they one and all condescended to give to the gossip mongers was that the Scarlet Pimpernel did not, as many supposed, and as the upholders of the late revolutionary Government tried to make out, perish on the guillotine. But, as was perhaps inevitable, as gossip grew in volume, some people ­ more astute than others ­ came, perhaps, very near the truth; and there is no doubt that the Prince of Wales knew more than he cared to admit. His usual curt replies to respectful enquiries were often quoted in the society journals of the time: "Ask Blakeney about your hero; he knows him."

The first days of the new year were destined to be eventful ones in Sir Percy's subsequent life, for they undoubtedly paved the way for the new trend of thought which led him to further adventures. On January 3rd, Sir Percy met Commodore Horatio Nelson at a banquet given by the Lord Mayor of London.

"Our talk," Blakeney records in his diary, "was chiefly of that demmed Scarlet Pimpernel. The little sailor would talk of nothing else. H.R.H., he told me, had referred him to me and he would give me no peace till I had described some of the League's most successful efforts in outwitting the revolutionary spies. We spoke together for over an hour, and I was waxing more and more impatient. In the end he said with a sigh: 'Well, Sir Percy, we must live in hopes that your hero will continue his prowess by sea. England hath still need of such men as he!'"

No doubt a keen student of human nature like Blakeney would quickly discern in "the little sailor" as he calls him, the same joy of adventure, the same recklessness when faced with overwhelming odds and the same determination to see a thing through that had animated him throughout his career in revolutionary France; whilst Nelson's few words, spoken with that rare charm and earnestness which had the power of arousing patriotism and loyalty in every man who heard him speak, did undoubtedly infuse the hope in Blakeney's heart of renewed activity in the cause of humanity and for the glory of his country and his King.

The immediate effect of this momentous meeting was Sir Percy's generous gift of a large sum of money for the benefit of disabled and aged sailors.

The terrific expenditure of the war had depleted the Exchequer to an alarming extent. The strength of the army and the navy, having been reduced the year before, both were now inadequate for the preservation of England's safety on sea and land and funds were sorely needed for their upkeep. The Heir to the Throne made a personal appeal to the generosity of private individuals who were rich enough to contribute from their surplus wealth something towards the defense of their homes and the very source of their prosperity.

The result of this appeal was that Blakeney's fortune provided a man-of-war for the service. The ship, the building of which had at the time been nearly completed, but had been suspended owing to the lack of funds, was rapidly commissioned and, having been rechristened The Marguerite by Lady Blakeney herself, sailed away to her ultimate destruction at the battle of the Nile.

A great event in the annals of the Blakeney family occurred early in February, 1796, an event which not only astonished society in general, but also the debonair Sir Percy himself, who, having noticed his wife's sudden distaste for dancing and the amenities of the social round, did not guess the real cause. He himself was earnestly encouraged by Marguerite to go off on a fishing expedition, which he did, and to his amazement on his return to Bath a few weeks later, he was met at the door by a leech and a midwife who imparted to him the joyful news.

Sir Percy was never able to analyze his own feelings when first he gazed down upon the lump of living flesh which was his first-born son. Fatherhood, as such, had never touched him. His own indifference to Sir Algernon and their unfortunate estrangement had distorted the paternal outlook to such an extent that he could not, at first, visualize the fact of his own position as father. In the beginning, as was perhaps only natural, he flew to his wife. He felt like the majority of men, that the new-comer was an interloper between himself and his love, so that it was with mixed emotions that he greeted the advent of his son.

Gradually, however, out of that perplexed state of mind there emerged the sensation of pride. The congratulations of friends gave the event a note of importance. And it presently dawned upon him that, as a matter of fact, this was exactly what he had been waiting for all his life; the birth of one who would perpetuate his name and race had all along, and unbeknown to himself, been the true purpose of his existence and the mainspring of his actions. It stood for the only true immortality!

"Dear Ffoulkes," he wrote, on February 10th, in answer to the letter of congratulation from his friend, "you tell me that the same happy event is in store for you. I wonder whether you will experience the same emotions and feelings as I did when the birth of George was announced to me. I confess that I have not got this fact very clear in my dull mind as yet, but this much I do know; that all I did, all that I have ever thought, was merely an anticipation of this event. For the first time since the end of our adventures together I am proud to have been the Scarlet Pimpernel; proud that I have something in my past to bequeath to the future."

"What will become of George? This is now my only thought. All my energies will be concentrated on this problem. To its solution I shall apply all my faculties. Perhaps I shall be able to make something of him; something which his father never could have realized. I pray God that it will be so!"

George Blakeney was christened at Bath Abbey, the Prince of Wales standing Godfather for the infant.

There was an amusing sidelight to the event. Coincidences seemed to be busy in the social set which revolved around the Blakeneys. The gossip mongers were confounded by the birth of a Blakeney heir, for they had laid down the axiom that the quarrel between them, begun so soon after their honeymoon, had never been patched up, whilst Sir Percy's wanton and open desertion of his wife during the greater part of the previous four years did, in the opinion of these tittle-tattlers, exclude any possibility of a reconciliation having ever taken place.

And all of a sudden now, not only was Sir Percy Blakeney a proud father, but most of his elegant friends followed suit. Children were born about this time to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Anthony Dewhurst. As the latest bon-mot from the mouth of the Prince had it: "The Scarlet Pimpernel must have given one last and imperious summons to his League ere disbanding it!"

Now that Blakeney was forced into a more or less passive life, he required a new interest to arouse him from the attack of melancholy which seemed at one time to have taken a fatal hold on his spirits. Young George provided that necessary distraction. Within a few weeks of his son's birth, his old time gaiety had returned to him. The streets of Bath resounded with his infectious laugh and he brought good cheer wherever he went. The croakers who had dolefully shaken their heads and declared that Sir Percy Blakeney, the elegant dandy, was on the way to melancholia, were happily disappointed, whilst the ladies bemoaned the fact that Sir Percy had become a model husband and a veritable stay-at-home. His excuses for appearing late at balls; his lame apologies for unpunctuality, were now all connected to George, and were received with leniency and good humour.

"George was laughing, madam," he would say, "Egad, he can laugh as heartily as his father. Faith, you should come and hear him one of these days. It would do your digestion more good than all these demmed waters you drink. My wife declares that he will be as inane as I am! So you understand, I could not interrupt the concert!"

And Society had to be content with these excuses, or else incur Sir Percy's displeasure, and it was better to have the attendance of Sir Percy, however late he might choose to turn up, than count the failure of one's rout by holding it without him.

In spite of all the joys and responsibilities of fatherhood, however, this same year saw the end of Blakeney's enforced idleness.

Though England was, as a whole, desirous of continuing the war with France, Pitt and his immediate followers were inclined towards peace. He made, about this time, a determined effort to procure a cessation of hostilities. To this end, he was backed up by the King himself. As a first attempt, negotiations were opened up through the Danish ambassador in Paris, but the high-handed tone which the Directoire adopted towards the British Government left very little hope of a reconciliation between the two countries. It appeared that the French, as a nation, were as anxious to continue the war as were the people of England and the voices of one or two of their citizens which were raised in favour of peace were drowned by the popular clamor for more bloodshed. And as far as England was concerned, it was, perhaps, unfortunate that at the very moment when Pitt was striving to initiate negotiations for peace and had almost succeeded in bringing round to his views a majority in Parliament, victories, both on sea and land, awoke in the masses a thirst for further conquests.

A few months later, however, France, finding herself exhausted of men and short of money, declared herself willing to resume negotiations for peace with England, but she would only receive overtures through direct diplomatic channels and not through an intermediary. To this end she would provide the English plenipotentiaries with the necessary passports.

Pitt, delighted at these overtures, appointed Lord Malmesbury to head the English delegation to France. He was an experienced and tactful diplomat and obviously the right man to choose for the task. But, like most Englishmen, he was conversant with no other language but his own, and his knowledge of the aims and ideals of the new French Government was practically nil. He was first to suggest to the Prime Minister that he should be accompanied on his mission by someone who possessed that knowledge and who spoke French fluently. In casting round for such man, Pitt's thoughts naturally turned to his Harrow friend whom he knew to have been in constant touch for years with French affairs and who had before now done good work on diplomatic missions.

"Dear Blakeney," wrote Pitt on February 11th, "I expect that H.R.H. has already informed you of our projects for reopening peace negotiations with France. Though her terms have all along been impossible of acceptance, she is undoubtedly in a humbler frame of mind to-day; all the same I would greatly value your views on our chances of success since your knowledge of French people and of their present Government has probably supplied you with facts such as are not in our possession, and I feel that you have been able to gauge more accurately that any one else in England the attitude of the French nation towards war. Our intermediaries have either been duped or else have relied more on their imagination than on actual facts.

"Naturally this communication, my dear Percy, is strictly confidential and I rely upon your discretion in this matter. If we are to reopen communications with Paris, perhaps you would care to join the Embassy."

Blakeney's answer was characteristic of the man.

"My Dear Pitt,

"You should have realized by now that that demmed French Government is still composed of a pack of murdering blackguards, despite the relaxation of their reign of Terror. On my journey to France at the end of last year, the populace was certainly in favour of peace, but the Directoire is filled with hatred for our country and I do not think would receive any reasonable overtures of peace in the right spirit. That Italian upstart, General Bonaparte, is very hostile towards us and it appears as if he was destined to rise to a prominent position in the Government. He dreams ­ so I heard tell ­ of invading England and setting one of his brood upon our throne! Should any offers of peace be received from that quarter, beware! They would be merely a cloak for further hostile actions and a breathing space to enable them to reorganize their army and to plan further campaigns; the ultimate result would be a war more bitter and more strenuous than the last one. Naturally I do not expect you to give credence to my humble observations, but I do beg of you to watch your every step before you proffer the olive branch.

"Should any conclusion be arrived at, I would willingly help you to the best of my poor capacities."

Pitt for some unexplained reason was annoyed by the tone of Blakeney's letter. Whether he was merely angry at reading Percy's unfavourable opinion of his own hopes of peace or whether his resentment was actuated by jealously at finding that Blakeney upheld the view of the opposition on the subject, it is difficult to say, since there was no answer to this letter; certain it is that for a brief period there was a distinct coolness between the two friends.

At functions which Pitt and Blakeney both attended, scandalmongers soon noticed that the once fast friends seemed to avoid each other and that the coolest greetings passed between them when chance brought them face to face. Needless to say, neither of them satisfied the curiosity of the quidnucs by divulging the cause of their apparent estrangement which, by the way, was more of Pitt's making than Blakeney's. The former refused to patch up the differences between them and bore his resentment with very bad grace.

However, a few months later, yielding to the King's earnest wish, Pitt again appealed to the French Government to reconsider the question of a cessation of hostilities. This time the outlook was much more hopeful for a successful reopening of negotiations, since the drain in men and money caused by the war was affecting both belligerents equally.

Forgetting his show of temper, Pitt once more approached his friend Blakeney.

"Dear Percy,

"The King has authorized me to open negotiations with the French Government and they, in their turn, seem quite as anxious as we are to discuss a treaty of peace. I have been informed by the French Foreign Minister that safe conducts will be granted to a mission coming from us, and that the personnel of such a mission will receive adequate protection and consideration.

"I have once more approached Lord Malmesbury on the subject and he declares his readiness to head the delegates. I hope that your offer to accompany his lordship in a private capacity still holds good, and that you will place yourself at our disposal for this purpose. You will, should you be so inclined, accept this letter as your official invitation to join the mission.

"If you are free to-morrow, come and dine with me à deux, and I will put you in full possession of the facts and also of the questions which we hope will be answered affirmatively by the French Government.

"Yours sincerely,
William."

 

"My Dear William, 

"I am flattered that you should deem me a useful person to join the peace delegation. I shall be only too honoured to accompany Malmesbury, whom I know personally, and who will, I think, prove the right person for this delicate work.

"I shall look forward to to-morrow evening and pray that you will enlighten me as to my rôle in the business.

"Yours sincerely,
Percy."

This delegation set out soon after, buoyed by extravagant hopes of success which were not destined to be realized, even in part. Blakeney's prognostications were fulfilled. As soon as Paris was reached, the delegates were met with rebuffs at every turn, and with nothing but arrogance on the part of the French Government. Sir Percy tried to pour oil on the troubled waters of national pride and prejudice whenever the French commissioners effectively put an end to negotiations.

The fault of the impasse must be laid at the door of Marat, afterwards Duc de Bessano, the head of the French commission. It was evident that there was a want of cordiality and sincerity on the part of this man who seemed incapable of seeing the English point of view. He seemed purposely to aggravate the situation and, whenever some headway had been accomplished, he would throw a bombshell into the assembly in the shape of some new and impossible demand. Malmesbury, too, was apt to vacillate and refuse to come to any decision without first submitting every question and every answer to his own Government. Blakeney was constantly traveling to and fro with various messages since the Daydream, his yacht, was faster and surer than the ordinary packet boats, and thus the minimum of time wasted. He also expressed himself very forcibly to Pitt in a letter.

"Matters are going from bad to worse," he writes, "unless some miracle happens, I fear me that we shall return empty-handed. For some reason or other, the French are deliberately dragging out the negotiations and will not listen to our point of view. From remarks which I have overheard, I have reason to believe that the Directoire are secretly making great and extensive preparations for the invasion of Ireland and they are counting on a separate and very advantageous peace with Austria.

"I think that you should send someone else to parley with Marat. This astute Frenchman is leading Malmesbury up the garden path and as soon as the negotiations finally break down the rupture will be ascribed to us."

Thus the conference dragged itself out until well into December without any definite results. There were reports that the English were hissed in the streets of Paris and that on more than one occasion stones were hurled at them. At last, the French Government came into the open and invited Lord Malmesbury and his suite to quit French soil within twenty-four hours. Thus ended ignominiously all the English wholehearted attempts at peace.

On the return of the delegation, Pitt was so disappointed at the frustration of his cherished hopes, that it required all Blakeney's tact to avoid another breach of their friendship. But events were proving too strong for Pitt. The public was glad that the negotiations had been broken off. At the Lord Mayor's Show, which was as brilliant as usual, Pitt who drove in the procession was insulted by the crowd, whilst Fox, the favourite of the day and leader of the Opposition, was heartily applauded.

War was soon ravaging Europe again. At the opening of Parliament, His Majesty was obliged in his speech from the throne, to inform his faithful Commons that all attempts at negotiating peace with the French Government had failed. Pitt, violently attacked over his new scheme of taxation, was threatening to resign. This news reached Blakeney's ears via the Prince of Wales, and he went straightaway to his friend to argue the point with him and to dissuade him from so drastic a step.

"Saw old William," Blakeney writes in his diary, dated December 16th, 1796, "and told him not to be a demmed fool over those new taxes of his, especially as H.R.H. has informed him that the King would be very grieved to accept his resignation. War is the popular cry of the moment and all Pitt need do is bottle up his desire for peace at any price and approve the war to secure an overwhelming majority. Begad, thank heavens, I am no politician."

A somewhat curious incident occurred about this time, one to which Sir Andrew Ffoulkes makes a somewhat cryptic allusion in his diary, and which Sir Percy Blakeney in a letter to his friend treats which his usual flippancy.

On December 28th, the weather being exceptionally mild that year, Sir Percy, having returned to Richmond with his wife from a dinner-party in London, lingered in the stables as he very often did to fondle his favourite horses, talk to them and give them tidbits out of his pocket. He was walking back towards the house when his ears caught the sound of a whispered conversation which seemed to come from behind a line of shrubs that bordered the lawn on the river-side.

Poachers, thieves and racing cooks abounded in the district, and Blakeney, thinking that some of these louts were sneaking round the premises with nefarious intent, made his way cautiously across the lawn in the direction whence the muffled sound had come. But evidently the ruffians had sensed his presence, for when he drew near stealthily, and paused in order to listen, every sound was stilled. He went on, however, still cautiously and had almost reached the line of shrubs, when his quick ear detected a stealthy footstep coming this time from behind him. He paused, peering into the darkness before him, as if uncertain whether to retrace his steps or to continue on. That pause probably saved his life as the assassin had undoubtedly counted on attacking him from behind, whilst a confederate drew his attention away in the opposite direction. As it was, Blakeney was still facing the shrubbery when he caught sight of a vague form springing at him, one hand holding up a knife.

In an instant, Blakeney had caught hold of the upraised arm with such a grip of steel that the miserable wretch gave a squeal of pain. With a twist of Blakeney's iron wrist, the knife, a murderous weapon with a hunting blade, fell out of his hand. The accomplice in the meanwhile, hearing the screams and thinking no doubt that the nefarious deed had been accomplished, hurried on the scene of action only to be greeted by the terrifying sight of is confederate writhing in the powerful grip of their intended victim. The new comer, half mad with terror, hurled himself on Sir Percy, but a straight left from the most powerful fist in England soon disposed of this second assailant, who collapsed unconscious on the ground. Blakeney then called to his stablemen and ordered them to lock the two miscreants up in the hayloft and there to leave them until the police came to retrieve them the next morning.

"I'm demmed flattered!" is all Sir Percy wrote about the event. "Someone has honoured me by finding me a worthy subject for assassination. Begad, it's a good story and I pray that the unknown one will not be too disappointed at the blundering of his minions."

The next morning, Blakeney in a moment of idleness thought he would interview the two wretches. He found them in the hayloft reduced to a state of abject cowardice. At the sight of Sir Percy, they immediately fell to pleading for their lives. The humour of the situation made a strong appeal to Blakeney. It soon transpired that the two men were only tools in the hands of another, who had paid them well to do his dirty work for him. By dint of alternate threats of the hangman's rope and broad hints of possible pardon, Blakeney gradually wormed a true account of the conspiracy out of the men, as well as the name of their task-master. Whereupon, with that magnanimity which he always displayed towards the underdog, he gave each man who had tried to murder him five guineas and sent them about their business, with a final kick, and more threats of the gallows if they blabbed.

"Begad, the whole affair is priceless," he wrote to Ffoulkes on the subject of the incident. "Those wretched men were in terror lest I should hand them over to justice, but such an idea never entered my head. My one thought was to discover the author of the delicate attention. And the revelation was not long in the forthcoming. When I did hear what was obviously the truth it astounded me and I burst out laughing, for their instructions had been to put a knife into your humble servant and the poor brutes who knew something about me were half paralyzed with fear even before they embarked on their little excursion. 

"Of course I had suspected all along that the author of the pleasant incident belonged to our own set in society. And unless I am very much mistaken you will have guessed his name by now. All the same, it seems incredible that our mutual friend of the League should have nourished such bitter resentment against me all this while for the slightly mischievous trick which I played on him that night at Nantes. I might have understood his hate if I had left him in the lurch then, but as it was . . . well, I give it up.

"Of course, my dear Ffoulkes, you will keep this absurd incident a secret. I have not mentioned it to Marguerite, nor do I want her to get as much as an inkling of the matter.

"I shall personally not refer to the subject again, but his lordship had better keep his own knowledge of it to himself as I fear I would lose my temper should he make public allusion thereto. As it is, I hope that he will detect no difference in my manner towards him, for I do not intend to take any official notice of his murderous attack upon yours truly.

"But all the same, it was demmed amusing and I am vastly flattered."

Blakeney kept his word; he never divulged, beyond the hint contained in the above letter, the identity of the enemy, or the reason for the latter's revengeful jealousy for an imagined grievance.

But as a consequence (and the inference seems obvious), a mild sensation was caused in society early in January of the following year when it was learned that one of its most brilliant members, son of a peer of the realm and the heir to a vast fortune, Lord Kulmstead by name, had suddenly disappeared from his usual haunts without giving any reason for his abrupt departure, nor any indication of his probably destination. The Prince of Wales asked Blakeney for an explanation, but the latter seemed as ignorant as every one else, only vouchsafing an elegant shrug of his shoulders and a polite yawn. A few remarked a slightly malicious twinkle in the blue eyes and vowed that he could enlighten their curiosity had he so willed.

And that was the only sequel to the event as far as Sir Percy Blakeney was concerned.