"
"And Armand?" she pleaded.
"Have I ever broken my word? I promise you that the day the
Scarlet Pimpernel and I start for France, I will send you that
imprudent letter of his by special courier. More than that, I will
pledge you the word of France, that the day I lay hands on that
meddlesome Englishman, St. Just will be here in England, safe in the
arms of his charming sister."
And with a deep and elaborate bow and another look at the
clock, Chauvelin glided out of the room.
It seemed to Marguerite that through all the noise, all the
din of music, dancing, and laughter, she could hear his cat-like
tread, gliding through the vast reception-rooms; that she could hear
him go down the massive staircase, reach the dining-room and open the
door. Fate HAD decided, had made her speak, had made her do a vile
and abominable thing, for the sake of the brother she loved. She lay
back in her chair, passive and still, seeing the figure of her
relentless enemy ever present before her aching eyes.
When Chauvelin reached the supper-room it was quite deserted.
It had that woebegone, forsaken, tawdry appearance, which reminds one
so much of a ball-dress, the morning after.
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