And while in England life went on very much as it had done before during the last decade, in France Hell had been let loose.
It is not the purpose of the present chronicler to pass comment on the titanic struggle that was going on over there. Men, and women too, on both sides suffered and died for ideals that in their opinion would make the world purer and finer than it was and there was bitter disillusion for all. Tyranny after the struggle was more rampant than before, and in the meanwhile civilization came to a standstill, and passions were let loose that had hitherto been held in check either by education or oppression. When man loses his hold on his own passions he is apt to resemble the brute beast in his lust to kill, for man's idea of vengeance for past wrongs is to destroy the enemy who had made him suffer. So it was in France during those years of anarchy and bloodshed, the shameful record of which no amount of argument or sophistry can erase from the pages of her glorious history.
But all this is beside the question. It is not the rights and wrongs of the great revolutionary movement that pertains to the life story of that very gallant gentleman, Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., but rather his own sympathy with the numberless innocent victims of that gigantic cataclysm.
On the whole, England -- respectable, conservative England -- as well as her more liberal and freedom-loving citizens were outraged by the excesses committed in France in the name of Liberty. But on the whole the majority was content to watch and to wait, trusting in the good sense of the King who, in his recent speech from the throne, had declared that England would not depart from her attitude of neutrality. It was not her business to interfere in the internal politics of a sister nation.
There certainly was a fairly large party who clamoured loudly for war against a country who had dethroned and imprisoned her king, but there were no violent outbursts of popular indignation or riots in favour of or against the republican government of France. True Paine, with his book The Rights of Man, had created a mild sensation, and a few agitators, probably suborned by the revolutionary clubs of Paris, had tried to sow the seeds of sedition among the workless and the malcontents at home, in consequence of which a handful of hotheads had invaded the Foreign Office and attempted to assault Lord Castlereagh. But these were in a minority. For the most part, people kept their political opinions to themselves and emulated the King in his desire for non-interference.
On the other hand, since the King and Royal Family were granting liberal aid to refugees from France, those who could afford it showed their sympathy for those émigrés by subscribing generously to the various funds opened for their support and benefit.
From scraps of notes found among Sir Percy Blakeney's papers, from letters written at different times and to various friends, from the diaries of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and others, a reconstruction of the founding of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel can be made with a fair amount of accuracy. When the first story of the "Scarlet Pimpernel" was written in 1905, the author had not then the whole of the original documents in her possession. But as interest in this strangely arresting personality grew, letters, old pages of diaries were gradually collected; and at last, for the first time, details of this historic event can be brought to light.
It must not be imagined that the daring plan was the inspiration of a dream whilst asleep in an arm-chair after one of H.R.H.'s luncheon parties; nor that it was the result of a passing fancy, the whim of a moment's casual thought. It was the outcome of several factors which each had an influence on Blakeney's mind.
His hopes for married happiness had been rudely dashed. He was brooding over his disillusion, hardly able to sleep. The canker of disappointment was gnawing at his heart and undoubtedly, had he not been a man of exceptionally strong character, he would have ended his own life there and then. For a time he tried to allay his heartache by throwing himself into a vortex of pleasure. It was noticed that Blakeney drank a good deal more than was his wont; that he gambled heavily, that he would sit up late, often never going to bed at all.
His intimate friends, such as Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, Lord Bathurst and Lord Anthony Dewhurst, would try to persuade him to take up politics again, or, if he was averse to re-starting a career to go in for farming or some other occupation which would help to pass the time away. But their friendly advice was ignored. He could settle down to nothing useful. And thus the weeks passed and the pain was as acute as ever.
Again and again, during the long hours of mental torment, ever since the terrible revelation of his wife's denunciation of the St. Cyr family and its tragic sequel, he brooded over the fate of those unfortunate men and women who were paying such a heavy price for their former life of ease. Right from the beginning of the Reign of Terror in France, his soul sickened at the thought of the hideous carnage of innocent people with no distinction as to age or sex. Vaguely he wished that he could do something to alleviate their suffering. Exactly what or how, he could not imagine at the time. Nor could he understand why he was burning with the desire to help. He only knew that he did, and this thought, in time, took stronger and stronger root in his brain.
"It is a farcical notion, I admit," he writes to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes at the beginning of June, 1792, "to attempt what must seem an impossible task; namely to come to the rescue of those unfortunate people who are daily suffering torture and death in France. Why I should wish to do this, God alone knows. Perhaps it comes from a desire for expiation, to avenge the St. Cyrs. Perhaps again, it is a form of revenge: a revenge against the views, the so-called ideals, that brought their martyrdom about. But it is all so mixed up in my mind that I hardly understand it myself; my thoughts are in a tangle. But, oh, my dear Ffoulkes, how I long for an opportunity to escape from the confounded mess which I seem to have woven around myself . . ."
But the germ of the idea was born when, after a great deal for fruitless thinking, he finally made up his mind to devise some kind of workable plan for the rescue of those who appeared to him most worthy of sympathy. His ideas were vague at first on the subject. There were so many over in France, who were worthy of sympathy -- intellectuals, artists, aristocrats, faithful servants -- mostly scared to death at the magnitude of the cataclysm that had befallen them, unable to raise a finger to save themselves or those they cared for, and above all wholly destitute by now, without the means of organizing, let alone carrying out their escape from the revolutionary inferno.
Blakeney's scheme was to provide a fund for the purpose of forged passports and clothes and paying for the services of those who might be useful in an organized escape. But he soon realized that it would be impossible to distribute the money, for it would have to pass through so many hands, to most of which it would certainly stick long before it reached those for whom it was intended.
His second plan proved equally unworkable. Having paid a surreptitious visit to Paris with the intention of being of service to some of those unfortunates, he hoped that by offering substantial bribes to one or other of the poorly paid, half-starved, officials he could, by appealing to their greed, enlist their aid in his errand of mercy. But though he found no great unwillingness to accept good English gold, most of these men were equally ready to betray him and, through fear of reprisals if discovered, his plans also, or else openly spent the money they had received on themselves and none on the necessary preparations and journeys to the cost. Something more real, more dependable, was obviously needed.
And soon opportunity presented itself and with it the great idea was born.
What happened was this: over in Paris, Armand St. Just, Marguerite's young brother, had done a very foolish thing. Sickened by the terrible excesses committed by the Terrorists, his one-time friends, he had recklessly embarked on anti-revolutionary activities. This brought him into bad odour with the leaders of the extreme party and gravely imperilled his life.
His cousin, Louis de St. Just, who played Damon to Robespierre's Pythias, learned of Armand's revulsion of feeling, and delighted to hold the whip-hand over members of his family whom he considered traitors to the cause, dangled before Armand's frightened eyes the unpleasant picture of what exposure would mean to him. For Louis would willingly have sacrificed his own kith and kin on the altar of Liberty so long as that sacrifice redounded to his own credit and popularity.
Armand was helpless. He was not strong enough to take the bull by the horns and dare his cousin to do his worst, even though he knew that Louis had no definite proof of his complicity in the various Royalist plots that were hatched all over the country just then, nor had he sufficient physical courage to make a dash for liberty. He did not at first dare to communicate with his sister in England, or, for that matter, with anybody who might have been able to help him out of his trouble. He just stayed on at his lodgings in Paris, hoping for the best, with a sword of Damocles hanging over his head. And Louis continued to play with him and to taunt him until the poor young man was nearly driven mad with fear.
A fortnight later, about the fifteenth of June of that year, it appears that Armand, at the end of his tether, summoned up his courage and resolved to make a bid for freedom. He wrote to Marguerite and begged for her aid. This letter never reached its destination for his movements were closely watched and Louis of course made a point of having all his cousin's correspondence intercepted. Thus another weapon in the shape of that compromising letter was held over Armand's head, and this weapon was a highly dangerous one, since it was considered the act of a traitor to seek outside aid in any kind of emergency, or to attempt to leave French soil. The punishment for these crimes was of course death. After this, Armand St. Just was a virtual prisoner in Paris, though he was not actually cast into prison.
But Marguerite had heard from various sources, notably from friends with whom she was still able to keep in touch, that her brother was threatened with arrest. The exact cause for this she was not able to ascertain. At her wit's end how to get him out of France, she turned for help to the inane husband whom she hoped might prove useful at this juncture through the high favour in which he stood with the King and Royal Family, and through his intimacy with Pitt, Castlereagh and other prominent members of the government. She told him of Armand's terrible plight, and the deadly danger he was in, and begged Percy to do what he could to save him. Her entreaties did not fail to arouse her husband's sympathy; and he pledged Marguerite his word that he would bring Armand safely back to England. Twenty-four hours later he crossed over to France armed with all the safe conducts with which Pitt and Castlereagh could ensure his personal safety.
But after the very first interview with the men in power, it became perfectly clear to him that neither money, nor position, nor credentials counted for anything with the revolutionary government. Bribes were useless, threats no less so. There was no way out of the impasse. But his stay in Paris taught him one thing, the real horror of the existing situation. He became the unwilling spectator of the travesty of justice and the mock trials that went on day after day; he was able to see for himself the difficulty of achieving any success with regard to Armand; he could estimate how meager were the chances of rescuing any man, woman or child from death once they fell under the ban of the Public Prosecutor. There was no mercy, no compunction to be found in the hearts of those demagogues who had now assumed the reins of government of the new republic of France. All his schemes to aid the innocent and the persecuted seemed foredoomed to failure, and he saw himself reduced to helplessness which was terribly galling to his pride and a blot on his honour, since he had promised Marguerite that he would bring Armand back with him to England. And Sir Percy Blakeney had never before this broken his word.
However, he stayed on in Paris; still hoping against hope. He had seen Armand almost daily but the gates of Paris were so severely guarded these days, that the question of passing through without the necessary papers and passports seemed out of the question. Then one day he received an unexpected visitor in the person of a young girl who came to him with a pitiful story. She was a worker in a lace factory and had heard the other girls gossip about an English gentleman who had arrived in Paris, and who was so wealthy and powerful that he would be presently returning to England in the company of citizen Armand St. Just. Now, citizen St. Just, as everybody knew, was a traitor, and would surely have been sent to the guillotine before now, but for the kindly feeling which great men like Danton and citizen Robespierre had for his sister, the great actress of the Théâtre des Arts.
With this story ringing in her ears Anette -- this seems to have been her name -- had ferreted out the whereabouts of the English gentleman and had come to beg him on her knees, when he did return to England, to take her dear sick mother with him too.
Why did the poor sick mother want to go to England? Why should she be willing to part from her daughter Anette? Why not stay in Paris where persons of her condition in life were not usually looked on askance? Well, Paris was no longer safe for the poor sick mother; she had been for forty years the faithful servant of the Princesse de Lamballe, until the latter's terrible death at the hands of the mob, and surely the English gentleman knew what fate awaited the faithful servants of noble lords and ladies who had incurred the hatred of the revolutionary crowd.
This pitiable tale told to the accompaniment of a flood of tears did naturally stir Blakeney's passionate anger against his own helplessness, more than ever before. But it did more than that; it aroused in him a proud determination to conquer that helplessness and to master the thousand and one difficulties that stood in his way. It is of course impossible to guess what went on in his mind during the next few days, while he pondered over the case of Anette and her mother, or how the idea first struck him to effect their rescue by a clever stratagem.
What he did do, was to begin by giving it out that he was now leaving Paris, and returning to England after having fulfilled the many commissions entrusted to him by Lady Blakeney -- dresses, hats, reticules, for Paris, despite its demagogic tendencies, was still the arbiter of feminine fashion. And three days later the rich English dandy who had come armed with safe-conducts and passports from his own government, left the capital in his magnificent barouche escorted by his own valet and a French postilion hired for the occasion and followed by a wagon piled with luggage -- her ladyship's hats, shoes and hoops -- her ladyship who had been the idol of Paris when she was plain Marguerite St. Just of the Théâtre des Arts.
This imposing procession rattled along the cobblestones of Paris to the delight of quidnuncs who were passing by. It halted duly at the Barrière du Trone for the usual formalities, but as the English milor was so well provided with all the necessary papers for himself and his retinue and so lavish with his money, these formalities were gone through with as little delay as possible and the splendid barouche, followed by the wagon containing his ladyship's hats and hoops, was allowed to proceed on its way.
The most zealous and suspicious official on duty had not guessed that the young lad who sat next to the driver of the wagon and who formed part of the English milor's retinue, was no lad at all, but just a laceworker named Anette, and that under a pile of boxes containing supposedly her ladyship's new silk dresses, a terrified old woman lay concealed.
A week later Blakeney was back in Paris, not with a retinue this time, not in a sumptuous barouche, nor arrayed in magnificent clothes. He came back in the disguise of a hired man in the employ of a market gardener, who brought agricultural produce daily into the city. Whether Blakeney assumed the disguise as a rough laborer before engaging with this man, or whether he made it worth his while to pass him through the city gates as one of his employees, is not easy to say. In any case it was never so difficult to enter a city during these times of strict regulations as it was to leave it. Certain it is that he was in Paris at the end of July, 1792.
The excitement of planning the rescue of Anette and her mother and the success which attended this plan, drove him to fresh efforts. That these were not always successful can be gathered from one of the most interesting extracts out of his own journal which has most fortunately been preserved. It gives an insight into the workings of that astute brain, working away on schemes for the benefit of the friendless and the oppressed, not allowing itself to be discouraged by failure and determined to find a solution to every difficulty that presented itself. The extract is in fact the key to the man's entire character.
"Failure after failure! In my opinion, the only possible way to avoid further disappointments is to enroll other men with me in this enterprise. So far all the hitches have occurred owing to my inability to be in two places at once and also because it is necessary to have information collected from different sources. For instance, there ought to be somebody at the barricades watching for chances of exit or entrance; somebody must have access in and out of the prisons so as to gather information of the movements of the guards, of the lists of prisoners and of any sudden changes in the disposition of the cells. The importance of these, and a hundred other details, is now made clear to me."
And below are the significant words: "I refuse to be beaten."
One or two successes did now and then encourage him to continue to play a lone hand. Then came a failure or two, where some well-laid plans came to nought, either through some unseen blunder on the part of his protégés or some unforeseen difficulty, which might have been overcome if he had had a devoted friend to help him. Then it was that he seriously thought of the possibilities of forming a league amongst his friends to join him in the work of mercy.
The next step was taken from Calais where his beautiful yacht, the Daydream, had been lying at anchor in the roads for the past week. From on board the yacht he wrote a brief letter to his greatest friend, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, a letter which has also luckily been preserved. It is doubly interesting from the fact that apparently Blakeney had before this thrown out a hint or two to Ffoulkes on the subject of his plans.
"July the twenty-seventh, 1792. The Daydream.
"My Dear Ffoulkes,
"You will be surprised when you receive this message from me, but I pray you to follow the directions contained therein should you feel so disposed.
"My many failures -- Armand alas! is still a virtual prisoner in Paris -- have convinced me that I am doomed to failure in most cases, unless a few fearless friends would prove willing to come and give me a hand and sacrifice their leisure to this new and exhilarating sport. Therefore, do I turn in the first instance to you, my dear Ffoulkes, remembering our gay times at Harrow, and, should you be of such a mind, ask you to meet me in Calais at a certain disreputable hostelry called the 'Chat Gris' when I will propound my full plans to you. To this end, I will wait on the roads for the next six days so as to give this letter time to reach you and you to make your own arrangements. Every day after that at sundown I will visit the 'Chat Gris' in Calais and await you there.
"Should you not arrive by the second of next month, I shall take it that you cannot accede to my request. But, should you do so, for God's sake, let it be of your own free will and not out of friendship for me!
"Yours affectionately,
Percy Blakeney"
An annotation in the margin which is laconic, but descriptive, reads "Tally Ho!"
Sir Andrew Ffoulkes states afterwards that he received this letter at his lodgings in London on the twenty-ninth; it was brought to him by one of Blakeney's sailors; that immediately on its receipt, he questioned the man and discovered that the captain had made a special journey across the Channel in the Daydream, and that she was even then laying in the Dover Roads awaiting the answer; also that Blakeney was staying at an old inn just outside Calais called the "Chat Gris" and that the messenger had his orders to conduct Sir Andrew thither if the latter decided to go. Sir Andrew went! Having chartered a special coach, he and the brave sailor posted the very next day to Dover and boarded the yacht the same evening. With the turn of the tide they set sail, reaching Calais early in the morning of the thirty-first, a day ahead of the scheduled date.
Sir Andrew's memoranda are rather sketchy as to the subsequent proceedings and a great number of pages of Sir Percy's journal are unfortunately missing. That the two met is certain and there is no room for doubt, but that Sir Percy briefly recounted all his adventures to his friend, and discussed some of his plans with him, and that the two men subsequently set off for Paris together. After that there are only a few short remarks in the memoranda anent the actual journey and their entrance into Paris, which was evidently easily effected, since Blakeney, relying on his friend, had already supplied him with forged papers and a disguise.
"I looked," Sir Andrew recounts, "the most outrageous ruffian that ever set foot on the streets of Paris. My disguise was that of a coal heaver whilst Percy, having managed to conceal his enormous height, was a refuse carrier. Ye Gods! It was a never-to-be-forgotten sight; no one would have recognized our magnificent and immaculate friend in the dirt and grime that covered him."
It was during this visit that the famous device came to be adopted. Whilst wandering round the ramparts in company with Ffoulkes, Blakeney sketched out a plan for the rescue of an unfortunate ex-jeweller and his family, who had been denounced to the new revolutionary tribunal as being in communication with some émigrés in England and whose arrest was imminent. The plan was to get them out of Paris that same evening. Unfortunately some members of the family were at one end of the city and some at another. A general reunion was to take place in some obscure lodgings near the river which Blakeney had hired for the occasion. The trouble was supposing some hitch occurred whereby the existing plans would have to be modified, how to communicate with one another; obviously by a written message, sent by hand, but that message would have to be signed in some particular way, recognizable only to the recipient in case it should be intercepted.
"Blakeney," Ffoulkes tells us, "was running his fingers idly along the wall; suddenly they came in contact with a small flower -- red in color, star-like in shape -- a common wild flower known as the Shepherd's weather-glass. He gathered it and idly twiddled it between his finger and thumb. Then suddenly he laughed; and gave me a slap on the back that nearly knocked me over. 'Look,' he said, 'this is a wild flower called a Scarlet Pimpernel. I shall affix a drawing of this flower on my message to you. I can hide my identity safely under that device; nobody will guess it. By Jove, I will send one out to my whilom friend Maxmilian Robespierre straight away if we succeed tonight.' He was very much taken with the idea. He sat down on a stone and then and there set to work to practice making a drawing of the little flower. It seemed to me as good a secret device as could be invented and we decided to adopt it for all our communications. We also agreed that in the future Percy himself should be known as the Scarlet Pimpernel. I did point out to him, however, the folly of scattering his new insignia far and wide since the revolutionary spies would soon be on our track. But he only laughed, indicating at the same time his real reason for making free use of it. Firstly, so he explained, it must become widely known that by its means he could communicate not only with myself, but with all those whom he desired to help. Secondly, he wished to make an impression on the mob. He told me that our best chance of safety lay in making ourselves feared. To superstitious, half-educated people the mysterious device, sent to one or other of the judges of the new revolutionary tribunal every time an accused escaped the guillotine through our intervention, would act like a powerful charm or a curse, which would reduce many to a state of fear, especially if any of the rescues could be so contrived as to appear organized by supernatural agency. God, how right he was!"
Sometime during the first week of August, Armand St. Just with two of his friends were safely on board the Daydream. Sir Percy had managed to send messages addressed to Merlin de Douai and to Chabrond, two of the newly-elected judges of the Revolutionary Tribunal; one of these messages he slipped into the coat pocket of the sergeant on guard at the barricades at the very instant when the little party were being questioned, their papers investigated and their belongings searched. Sir Andrew was supposed to have given the other to the concierge of the house where Armand had been lodging, but he forgot to do so. That message has fortunately found its way into the bundle of documents already referred to. It ran as follows:
"A Mm. les juges siégeant au Tribunal extraordinaire: J'ai l'enseigne honneur de vous fair part du fait que M. Raoul de Bonnefin ainsi que Mademoiselle sa fille ont échappée à vos griffes meurtrières. Tous deux sont en ce moment à moitié chemin entre la France et l'Angleterre."
("To the judges presiding over the Tribunal Extraordinary: I have the honour to inform you that Mr. Raoul de Bonnefin and Mademoiselle, his daughter, have evaded your murderous clutches and are now on their way to England.")
And on the right-hand bottom corner, a rough drawing in red of the little wayside flower known as the Scarlet Pimpernel.
A day or two later, Sir Percy Blakeney, dressed as usual with that supreme elegance which he affected, stood looking out of a window of Blakeney Manor; a far-away look was in his eyes as they swept over the stretch of velvety green lawn, over the silver ribbon of the Thames, and out to the distant country beyond.
The room in which he stood was of an entirely different character from the other luxurious apartments in the house. Here a severe simplicity reigned in the dark and heavy hangings, the massive oak furniture, one or two maps on the wall; the general aspect of the room in question no way recalled the man about town, the lover of race-courses, the dandified leader of fashion, which were the outward representations of Sir Percy Blakeney. Here there was orderly method which suggested important business arrangements; the desk showed neat pigeonholes filled with papers, docketed and classified.
Above the desk on the wall was the full-length portrait of a woman, magnificently framed, exquisitely painted and signed with the name of Van Loo. It was Sir Percy's mother. On the side of the desk there hung two large-scale maps, one of the North of France and the other of Paris and its environs. Except for the heavy desk, the hangings, a priceless Oriental carpet and a few chairs, the room was empty of trappings -- a bare, neat, orderly room into which only Blakeney's valet, Frank, had admission. This was the room of a capable and energetic man of affairs, not that of an empty-headed nincompoop.
And in this room on that day of August, 1792, there were assembled some ten persons whose names were all familiar to London society, men whose existence was apparently devoted to pleasure and good cheer, men who were considered as brainless and foppish as Sir Percy himself, whose intimates they were.
Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was of course present: the others were Lord Anthony Dewhurst, my Lord Hastings, Lord Bathurst, Lord Stowmarries, Sir Edward Mackenzie, Sir Philip Glynde, young Lord Saint-Denys and Sir Richard Galveston, all of whom had been summoned to this meeting by Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. They stood or sat about obviously in a state of suppressed excitement, wondering what it was all about, some new prank of Blakeney's, of course, some scheme for enlivening the shooting season which was threatening to fall flat. Not one of them had the slightest inkling of what was to come, and when Blakeney turned round to face them they all experienced a kind of shock. Gone was the lazy good humour, the inane idle look had been cast aside like a mask. His languid blue eyes shone straight with a strange light. His elegant figure appeared to be imbued with more than its usual virile strength. And his voice when he did speak had lost its drawling intonation and become firm and trenchant.
He motioned his friends to sit down, and then, in a few clear crisp sentences he gave them an account of the events of the past few weeks. He told them how his sympathies had been aroused by the travesty of justice and wholesale persecution that went on in revolutionary France, and how the determination had gradually taken root in his mind to come to the rescue of countless innocents who were made to suffer along with the really guilty. He told them frankly of the several failures that had attended his efforts in that direction and of his exertions on behalf of Armand St. Just. Indeed, he kept nothing from these friends whose co-operation he desired to enlist.
Finally, he recounted to them his first really successful effort on behalf of the girl Anette and her sick mother, explaining how this success had spurred him on in his schemes; how these had gradually taken on more definite shape until he found that his range of activities became so wide that he could no longer cope with them single-handed. Then he came to his determination to enlist the sympathies of those who, like himself, had a horror of injustice and oppression, and whose love of sport would prompt them to join him in this adventure, with all its risks and dangers, and the exhilarating incidents. He proceeded to describe some of his methods of working, and outlined the parts which each would have to play should they decide to join him.
They all listened spell-bound; and as the simple tale of single-handed heroism, of failures frankly admitted and of dogged determination was unfolded before them, their enthusiasm broke all bounds. All they wanted was to become partners in this magnificent work, this war against injustice, some like Ffoulkes and Bathurst from sentimental ideals of self-sacrifice, some like Lord Tony and Saint-Denys from sheer love of sport. But with all their enthusiasm which gave itself vent in murmurs and in sighs, they felt the gravity of the situation, the dangers to life and freedom which they were asked to share with their friend.
Then, when the outline of the scheme had become clear to them, Blakeney told them of his idea to form a league, bound together by oath of mutual help and obedience to the chief; a solemn promise never to reveal the activities of the League or any of its projects to any outsider, not even to the King.
Oaths and promises, they declared unanimously, would readily be given. Without their realizing it these young exquisites were thoroughly sick of their empty existence, thoroughly bored with life; for that reason alone would they have joined with enthusiasm the proposed romantic League of adventurers, under the leadership of this man whose dual personality not one of them had suspected, and who were completely under the spell of this new side to his character.
Sir Andrew Ffoulkes made an entry in his diary, recording the fact that all those present signed a sort of agreement, a membership roll of the league, which was to be known as the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. They swore that they would trust their chief implicitly in everything. They bound themselves by solemn word of honour to obey without question his every word, to keep his identity secret, and never by sign or word to betray anything whatever that pertained to the aims and activities of the League.
Another extract gives the result of the interview:
"The S.P., Dewhurst and myself are to have first duties. We depart this very evening for France. Our object is to effect the rescue of the de Tournay family. I am wondering now what will happen between Percy and his wife. He told me of the unfortunate St. Cyr incident which had estranged them and I shudder to think of the possible consequences should my lady ever discover the truth."
As soon as he found himself alone Blakeney gave a deep drawn sign of contentment. His cherished ambition was now reached, the dreams of the last few weeks had materialized; and he had been able to enlist the aid of the most gallant and loyal sportsmen in Europe. For a minute he allowed pride to have its way with him -- it was akin to that of the artist in the work which he finds good: his friends had not questioned his leadership; they trusted him; they had unanimously agreed to all his demands on their loyalty, their time, even on their lives. His own existence made up of rich idleness and boredom was at an end. From now on he had an aim, a definite purpose in life, a use for his father's accumulated wealth, other than the mere spending on trivialities.
He would not have been the man he was or yet the perfect lover, had not thoughts of Marguerite got inextricably mixed with the hopes and ambitions of the future. Marguerite, his wife! the one being in the world he loved and whom he could not trust! The shadow of St. Cyr was doomed to stand for ever between him and the only happiness for which he craved.
A few hours later Ffoulkes and Dewhust returned. The shades of evening were rapidly drawing in and it was time to make a start.
"We had ordered a chaise," Sir Andrew records in his diary, "and Percy's swiftest horses were already between the shafts when we invaded his sanctum. There was a curious look about him then, which I could not explain, until, after a moment or two, from a distant part of the Manor, I heard the sound of a woman's voice singing an old French ditty. It was that of Lady Blakeney. Never in my life have I seen such utter grief, such hopelessness in any man's face, and Blakeney's deep-set eyes looked to me like the mirrors of despair. But as soon as he encountered my glance he pulled himself together, and with a genuine boyish laugh, he threw a travelling cape over his shoulder, took me by the arm, and the three of us sallied forth on the first adventure of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel!"