The Elusive Pimpernel. Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy
it is very hard to elicit sympathy over here for them, poor dears!”
“You are a Frenchwoman, of course,” rejoined Marguerite, who had noted that though the woman spoke English with a very pronounced foreign accent, she had nevertheless expressed herself with wonderful fluency and correctness.
“Just like Lady Blakeney herself,” replied the other.
“You know who I am?”
“Who could come to Richmond and not know Lady Blakeney by sight.”
“But what made you come to Richmond on this philanthropic errand of yours?”
“I go where I think there is a chance of earning a little money for the cause which I have at heart,” replied the Frenchwoman with the same gentle simplicity, the same tone of mournful dejection.
What she said was undoubtedly noble and selfless. Lady Blakeney felt in her heart that her keenest sympathy should have gone out to this young woman—pretty, dainty, hardly more than a girl—who seemed to be devoting her young life in a purely philanthropic and unselfish cause. And yet in spite of herself, Marguerite seemed unable to shake off that curious sense of mistrust which had assailed her from the first, nor that feeling of unreality and staginess with which the Frenchwoman's attitude had originally struck her.
Yet she tried to be kind and to be cordial, tried to hide that coldness in her manner which she felt was unjustified.
“It is all very praiseworthy on your part, Madame,” she said somewhat lamely. “Madame … ?” she added interrogatively.
“My name is Candeille—Desiree Candeille,” replied the Frenchwoman.
“Candeille?” exclaimed Marguerite with sudden alacrity, “Candeille … surely …”
“Yes … of the Varietes.”
“Ah! then I know why your face from the first seemed familiar to me,” said Marguerite, this time with unaffected cordiality. “I must have applauded you many a time in the olden days. I am an ex-colleague, you know. My name was St. Just before I married, and I was of the Maison Moliere.”
“I knew that,” said Desiree Candeille, “and half hoped that you would remember me.”
“Nay! who could forget Demoiselle Candeille, the most popular star in the theatrical firmament?”
“Oh! that was so long ago.”
“Only four years.”
“A fallen star is soon lost out of sight.”
“Why fallen?”
“It was a choice for me between exile from France and the guillotine,” rejoined Candeille simply.
“Surely not?” queried Marguerite with a touch of genuine sympathy. With characteristic impulsiveness, she had now cast aside her former misgivings: she had conquered her mistrust, at any rate had relegated it to the background of her mind. This woman was a colleague: she had suffered and was in distress; she had every claim, therefore, on a compatriot's help and friendship. She stretched out her hand and took Desiree Candeille's in her own; she forced herself to feel nothing but admiration for this young woman, whose whole attitude spoke of sorrows nobly borne, of misfortunes proudly endured.
“I don't know why I should sadden you with my story,” rejoined Desiree Candeille after a slight pause, during which she seemed to be waging war against her own emotion. “It is not a very interesting one. Hundreds have suffered as I did. I had enemies in Paris. God knows how that happened. I had never harmed anyone, but someone must have hated me and must have wished me ill. Evil is so easily wrought in France these days. A denunciation—a perquisition—an accusation—then the flight from Paris … the forged passports … the disguise … the bribe … the hardships … the squalid hiding places. … Oh! I have gone through it all … tasted every kind of humiliation … endured every kind of insult. … Remember! that I was not a noble aristocrat … a Duchess or an impoverished Countess …” she added with marked bitterness, “or perhaps the English cavaliers whom the popular voice has called the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel would have taken some interest in me. I was only a poor actress and had to find my way out of France alone, or else perish on the guillotine.”
“I am so sorry!” said Marguerite simply.
“Tell me how you got on, once you were in England,” she continued after a while, seeing that Desiree Candeille seemed absorbed in thought.
“I had a few engagements at first,” replied the Frenchwoman. “I played at Sadler's Wells and with Mrs. Jordan at Covent Garden, but the Aliens' Bill put an end to my chances of livelihood. No manager cared to give me a part, and so …”
“And so?”
“Oh! I had a few jewels and I sold them. … A little money and I live on that. … But when I played at Covent Garden I contrived to send part of my salary over to some of the poorer clubs of Paris. My heart aches for those that are starving. … Poor wretches, they are misguided and misled by self-seeking demagogues. … It hurts me to feel that I can do nothing more to help them … and eases my self-respect if, by singing at public fairs, I can still send a few francs to those who are poorer than myself.”
She had spoken with ever-increasing passion and vehemence. Marguerite, with eyes fixed into vacancy, seeing neither the speaker nor her surroundings, seeing only visions of those same poor wreckages of humanity, who had been goaded into thirst for blood, when their shrunken bodies should have been clamouring for healthy food—Marguerite thus absorbed, had totally forgotten her earlier prejudices and now completely failed to note all that was unreal, stagy, theatrical, in the oratorical declamations of the ex-actress from the Varietes.
Pre-eminently true and loyal herself in spite of the many deceptions and treacheries which she had witnessed in her life, she never looked for falsehood or for cant in others. Even now she only saw before her a woman who had been wrongfully persecuted, who had suffered and had forgiven those who had caused her to suffer. She bitterly accused herself for her original mistrust of this noble-hearted, unselfish woman, who was content to tramp around in an alien country, bartering her talents for a few coins, in order that some of those, who were the originators of her sorrows, might have bread to eat and a bed in which to sleep.
“Mademoiselle,” she said warmly, “truly you shame me, who am also French-born, with the many sacrifices you so nobly make for those who should have first claim on my own sympathy. Believe me, if I have not done as much as duty demanded of me in the cause of my starving compatriots, it has not been for lack of good-will. Is there any way now,” she added eagerly, “in which I can help you? Putting aside the question of money, wherein I pray you to command my assistance, what can I do to be of useful service to you?”
“You are very kind, Lady Blakeney …” said the other hesitatingly.
“Well? What is it? I see there is something in your mind …”
“It is perhaps difficult to express … but people say I have a good voice … I sing some French ditties … they are a novelty in England, I think. … If I could sing them in fashionable salons … I might perhaps …”
“Nay! you shall sing in fashionable salons,” exclaimed Marguerite eagerly, “you shall become the fashion, and I'll swear the Prince of Wales himself shall bid you sing at Carlton House … and you shall name your own fee, Mademoiselle … and London society shall vie with the elite of Bath, as to which shall lure you to its most frequented routs. … There! there! you shall make a fortune for the Paris poor … and to prove to you that I mean every word I say, you shall begin your triumphant career in my own salon to-morrow night. His Royal Highness will be present. You shall sing your most engaging songs … and for your fee you must accept a hundred guineas, which you shall send to the poorest workman's club in Paris in the name of Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney.”
“I thank your ladyship, but …”
“You'll