"Not a bad day's work."
He opened one or two letters from Sir Andrew Ffoulkes'
pocket-book, noted the tiny scrap of paper which the two young men had
only just had time to read; but one letter specially, signed Armand
St. Just, seemed to give him strange satisfaction.
"Armand St. Just a traitor after all," he murmured. "Now,
fair Marguerite Blakeney," he added viciously between his clenched
teeth, "I think that you will help me to find the Scarlet Pimpernel."
CHAPTER X IN THE OPERA BOX
It was one of the gala nights at Covent Garden Theatre, the
first of the autumn season in this memorable year of grace 1792.
The house was packed, both in the smart orchestra boxes and in
the pit, as well as in the more plebeian balconies and galleries
above. Gluck's ORPHEUS made a strong appeal to the more
intellectual portions of the house, whilst the fashionable women, the
gaily-dressed and brilliant throng, spoke to the eye of those who
cared but little for this "latest importation from Germany."
Selina Storace had been duly applauded after her grand ARIA
by her numerous admirers; Benjamin Incledon, the acknowledged
favourite of the ladies, had received special gracious recognition
from the royal box; and now the curtain came down after the glorious
finale to the second act, and the audience, which had hung spell-bound
on the magic strains of the great maestro, seemed collectively to
breathe a long sigh of satisfaction, previous to letting loose its
hundreds of waggish and frivolous tongues.
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