The Scarlet Pimpernel
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About this ebook
At the beginning of the French Revolution, a group of Englishmen form a secret society to rescue French aristocrats from the guillotine. Their mysterious leader is the elusive Scarlet Pimpernel. London society relishes stories of his heroic deeds and hotly debates the question of his identity. Meanwhile, the new French envoy to England, Citizen Chauvelin, will stop at nothing to catch him. Then Marguerite St. Just, the beautiful French wife of English aristocrat Sir Percy Blakeney, makes a startling discovery about the Scarlet Pimpernel's true identity. Marguerite must decide where her loyalties lie—with her beloved brother in France, or with the dashing Pimpernel. Can she save them both? This is an unabridged version of the historical swashbuckling adventure by Hungarian-born British author Baroness Emmuska Orczy, and was first published in 1905.
Baroness Emmuska Orczy
Baroness Emma Orczy was a British novelist and artist best known for her Scarlet Pimpernel novels. Educated as an artist, Orczy took on work as a translator and illustrator to supplement the family income before finding success as a playwright and writer. During her career Orczy penned more than 50 literary works including The Scarlet Pimpernel (both the novel and the play), I Will Repay, and Lady Molly of Scotland Yard. An active supporter of the British monarchy, Orczy was a founding member of the Women of England's Active Service League, which focused on the recruitment of female volunteers during the First World War. Orczy died in 1947 at the age of 82.
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Reviews for The Scarlet Pimpernel
1,825 ratings92 reviews
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A classic, and for a good reason.The Scarlet Pimpernel is a daring tale set during the French Revolution. A mysterious Englishman, known only as the Scarlet Pimpernel, is devoted to rescuing those that the revolutionaries have condemned to the guillotine. A ruthless French agent is just as determined to find the Scarlet Pimpernel and send him to his execution. And it all hinges on the actions of one woman...Oh what fun! A smashing good read!Experiments in Reading
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Defined at its most basic level, a superhero is a vigilante with a secret identity and a gimmick that sets them apart from ordinary vigilantes. Hungarian-born British playwright Baroness Emma Magdolna Rozália Mária Jozefa Borbála Orczy de Orci’s The Scarlet Pimpernel features as its titular main character a British aristocrat who uses disguises to conceal his identity as he aids nobles in their escape from the Reign of Terror during the French Revolution, signing his notes to his accomplices and his taunts to the French authorities with a scarlet pimpernel flower (Anagallis arvensis). Baroness Orczy based this 1905 novel on her original 1903 play, with her superhero predating Johnston McCulley’s Zorro by 14 years and Walter B. Gibson’s The Shadow by at least 25 years (depending on if one begins with the play or novel and counts The Shadow’s first radio appearance or the first magazine story), though the first superheroes as most know them wouldn’t appear until 1938 and ’39 with Superman and the Batman, respectively. Baroness Orci published five further novels and one short story collection before the appearance of Zorro in 1919, an additional four novels and short story collection before the appearance of The Shadow, and three more novels before the first appearance of Superman, with her final Scarlet Pimpernel novel, Mam’zelle Guillotine, appearing in 1940. In total, Baroness Orczy’s superhero appears in eleven novels and two short story collections, with the series also including two novels about his ancestor and one about his descendant.The basic plot revolves around Sir Percy Blakeney, a baronet who uses the guise of the Scarlet Pimpernel to rescue French aristocrats. Like the Batman years later, Sir Percy Blakeney acts “the lazy nincompoop, the effete fop, whose life seemed spent in card and supper rooms” so as to throw off those who would discover the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel (pg. 128). Madame Orczy describes Sir Blakeney’s mansion in terms that similarly recall Wayne Manor, all of it a further part of his disguise as a vain aristocrat (pg. 129). Citizen Chauvelin pursues the Pimpernel on behalf of the Committee of Public Safety, seeking to discover his identity and prevent him aiding aristocrats in their escape. Meanwhile, Marguerite Blakeney, the wife of Sir Percy, stumbles across and inadvertently reveals his identity after Chauvelin’s attempts to blackmail her by threatening her brother, Armand St. Just, who still resides in France and is threatened by the republican forces currently orchestrating the Reign of Terror. In many way, the various aristocrats’ discussion of the Scarlet Pimpernel coupled with the misunderstandings between Marguerite and others reflect some of the drawing room farces popular only a decade prior to the novel’s publication in the Victorian era. Like any proper superhero story, the Pimpernel’s adventures continued as Baroness Orczy published a sequel, I Will Repay, one year later in 1906. The third act does have some alarming ethnic stereotypes reflective of the period in which Baroness Orczy wrote, but the rest is entertaining and the work itself is worthy of study for its place in genre fiction. This edition, part of ImPress’s “The Best Mysteries of All Time” series, reprints the original 1905 text in its entirety with a red leather cover. It makes a lovely gift edition for fans of the original work or book collectors looking to add to their shelves.
- Rating: 1 out of 5 stars1/5I have no idea why some people classify this novel as a classic piece of literature. Just because it was written over a hundred years ago doesn't automatically make it a great novel. Orczy is not in the same league as Tolstoy or Dickens or Shakespeare. She did not write a number of brilliant works that hold up to the passage of time and remain relevant. She did, I think, write the first superhero novel. I read that the creators of Batman were influenced by The Scarlet Pimpernel and I totally see that. At times I felt like I was reading the pulpy novelization of an action movie. I'm sure at the time of the release of this book (and the accompanying play) the plot seemed fresh and daring. Now, of course, it's just one long cliche and common trope. The comparisons to a Scooby Doo episode are not far off the mark.The plot is extremely far-fetched and the characters one dimensional. I kept waiting for a supernatural element to be introduced in order to explain the disguises the S.P. used. I couldn't suspend my disbelief enough - there is no way he could turn himself into a petite elderly woman. Just....no. He's supposed to be huge. How does he hide his height and girth? Hmmmm. And Marguerite -the cleverest woman in Europe! - spends hours with him while he is disguised and doesn't notice? Hmmm. The S.P.'s superhuman strength is also over the top. He is beaten so severely he loses consciousness yet he is still able to walk a mile and a half in the pitch dark through the rough countryside carrying Marguerite? Hmmmm. Orczy is a mediocre writer. If I read the word "inane" one more time I was going to scream. Were thesauruses not invented when she wrote the book? She tells the reader, she doesn't show the reader. Don't tell me Marguerite is "the most clever woman in Europe" over & over & over. Show me! Instead, Marguerite is incredibly dense throughout the book. I couldn't get over how she kept forgetting people - forgetting her husband, forgetting her brother, forgetting that guy that helped her get to France. Where was the cleverness? The romance between Marguerite and her husband befuddled me. They got secretly married after a whirlwind courtship because he was sexually attracted to her and she really enjoyed how much he desired her. She didn't love him but loved that he loved/wanted her so much. Then, after the marriage, they almost immediately have a falling out and never talk about it because both are too proud. Marguerite suddenly decides she passionately loves her husband because.....um, that wasn't totally clear to me. Because she found out he was secretly the S.P.? Or something like that.Finally, that crazy antisemitic chapter of the book "The Jew" - what the hell!?!? That came out of no where. It was like talking to someone at a party, thinking they are cool, when suddenly they start talking about n*ggers and f*ggots. Whoa! Didn't realize how horrible you were! Thanks for sharing that tidbit about yourself! It wasn't just that Orczy was showing some of her characters to be bigoted towards Jewish people. She, the third person narrator, was writing these horrid descriptions."His red hair, which he wore after the fashion of the Polish Jews, with the corkscrew curls each side of his face, was plentifully sprinkled with grey- a general coating of grime, about his cheeks and chin, gave him a peculiarly dirty and loathsome appearance. He had the habitual stoop, those of his race affected in mock humility in past centuries, before the dawn of equality and freedom in matters of faith, and he walked behind Desgas with the peculiar shuffling gait which has remained the characteristic of the Jew trader in continental Europe to this day.""She felt as if he held Percy's fate in his long, dirty hands.""The eyes of the Jew shot a quick, keen glance at the gold in his interlocutor's hand.""With a final, most abject and cringing bow, the old Jew shuffled out of the room."Talk about a buzz kill. I was already having issues with the book and that chapter was like the final nail in the coffin. I give the book 2 stars because it does have a historical interest in the sense that Orczy created a Batman/Superman sort of hero and that is intriguing. Also, I am a sucker for books set in that time period. Even mediocre books like this one.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Great history, from both the classic sense of history and also in the sense of history of plotting in a mystery. The historical landscape is carefully described. It is also counterintuitive in terms of underdog/favorite dynamics. And the plotting itself is very clever, particularly so when you place it early on the development of mystery plotting. The chapters are short so it is also easy to pick up and set down.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Justly famous for it's theatrical style, outrageous intrigue and less-than-2-percent-body-fat plot. I enjoyed it despite the florid writing and simplistic, one-sided view of historic events. Still, I must say, if the French secret police were really this dense, I too could have duped them as often and with equal panache.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5WOW!! This book was amazing! A classic and a must read! I am not going to write a real review because it would be all spoilers anyway, so just know that you should read this! Some parts were hard from me to get through (lotttts of description!) but I am glad I kept at it, and in the end, this is now one of my favorite classics!
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Lady Blakeney is a bit of a disappointment, considering she was written by a woman. However, the story being told through her point of view is a very interesting device. They are the proto-couple for Nick and Nora Charles (of the movies). Sir Percy himself is fantastic, and despite the slow-start to the book, the writing is exciting and story very captivating.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Well, this was really fun. The unknown man known as the Scarlet Pimpernel is a master of disguise. His creative plots to save members of the nobility from the French revolutionaries were tremendously entertaining. I was pleasantly surprised by this book. The narration by Ralph Cosham of the audio book was very good.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I remember reading an abridged version of this book when I was about 10 or 11 years old because I liked the title, but I didn't remember the story at all so it was a delightful surprise adventure for me to the time of the Reign of Terror. I loved it and usually Classics are not my forte.The Scarlet Pimpernel is an adventurer who risks his life to free the terrified royalists who are awaiting execution during the Reign of Terror. We hear of the exploits of this courageous man as he smuggles men, women, and children out of France before their date with guillotine. He is threatened with exposure and yet manages to continue his mission.What surprised me most about this book is the story - not the main plot but the underlying tale of rescue of Frenchmen by a band of Englishmen. First, you have Englishmen trying to free Frenchmen which is unusual given the animosity between the two countries that had existed since the time of Henry V, then you have the fact that the English had tried 10 years earlier to prevent the Americans from freeing themselves from England, and last the Key point for me, was the major difference between the American Revolution and the French Revolution. Seeing the violence of the French Revolution and the overthrow of the government as the chief point in that Revolution, makes me appreciate more the struggle that the American colonists undertook to gain their own freedom.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I don't know how or when I learned about this story, but I've known the basic plot for a long time. It's never been part of my reading plans because I thought it just wasn't for me, that it would be just a silly melodrama. And yes, it is kind of silly, with Lady Blakeney being so clever, such tiny exquisite hands, so perfectly beautiful. The writing isn't great, with much repetition - the word "merrily" is used often, very often. Despite all this, I loved the book. It's a swashbuckling adventure story, a romance. It has a fabulously brave, clever, handsome hero, and of course the aforementioned beauty of Lady Blakeney. All this and a setting of the French Revolution as a bonus. Excellent!
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A classic worth re-reading! It has everything: adventure, romance, intrigue, history, humour and a happy ending! What more could you ask?
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5If you are older and like detailed books then this would be for you, I did not like this because I am a bad age to read it. This is a action/mystery/suspense book about a man who saves nobles from the french revolution's guillotene.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5That was good fun.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5After loving the musical for so long, I decided to dive into the book before I watched a film adaption.Overall, I loved the book. The only things I was disappointed with was the extreme lack of Percy, who is the most enigmatic character in the whole series. Instead we're left with Marguerite's point of view. And honestly, she isn't the sharped crayon in the box. Also, no sword fighting! Thank God the movies and musical added that bit.Really can't get enough of Sir Percy that I'm definitely continuing with the series.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5We seek him here, We seek him there,Those Frenchies seek him everywhere!Is he in heaven? Is he in hell?That demmed elusive Pimpernel!So goes the rhyme written about the secretive Englishman who stealthily smuggles French royals into his country to escape their fates at the guilletine. A master of wit and clever disguise, none know the identity of The Scarlet Pimpernel who takes his name from the flower he signs his letters with. Filled with love and adventure, this story is a charming tale and a delightful read for all ages.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A rousing adventure story that's by turns suspenseful, romantic and funny. Our hero fights to save folks condemned to the guillotine during the French Revolution.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5There's something about books you read when you're very young, the ones that transport you away. Even if they're embarrassing or not up to snuff when you re-read them later, they're still enjoyable due to the young feelings they re-kindle.
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5How this book wound up in the Folio Society's catalogue is beyond me. This childish (not child-like) book adopts an inanely simple viewpoint on the French Revolution, altering facts and faces as it sees fit in the interests of the, ahem, "plot". Said plot is burdened with various ludicrous devices, contradictions, and a dramatis personae with an average (or is it total?) IQ of under 100. The writer, we learn, was Hungarian nobility, transplanted to England and burdened with excess admiration of all things upper class. The sin is compounded with appalling racism directed at, amongst others, Jews and Frenchmen.Not content with one go at the genre, she spent the rest of her sorry career writing more in the life of the Pimpernel. Fortunately, we are forewarned by an introduction that is not kind to the author.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5An underrated classic. A definite must read for young adults especially.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I read this many year ago and it was a favorite back then. It's still excellent - although I can tell my tastes have changed over time. I don't remember it being quite so - sappy. But then, I think I read it during a sappy time. My favorite trivia about this book is it is generally considered to be one of the main sources of inspiration for Batman/Bruce Wayne. And considering how clever Blakeney is, one has no trouble believing that. With humor, love, adventure, and much daring-do, this is an fine read, perfect for rainy days on couch or sunny beaches by the water. Highly recommend, particularly if you enjoy light literature or need a break.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Yes, I realize this is a novel *against* the French Revolution (as my publisher so helpfully pointed out). Orczy's writing is gripping and the plot moves along quickly, reminding me of a reverse-Dickens novel.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The movie based on this book is my father's favorite. It combines a little of everything: swordfighting, wild disguises, narrow escapes, love, passion, and saucy humor. Apparently there's a whole series of books about Sir Percival Blakeney, Baronet--I need to find them.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I liked this book so much more than I thought I would. It takes place during the French Revolution and the Reign of Terror. An English gentleman has taken it upon himself to rescue French aristocrats and take them to England. Everyone wants to know who he is.Quite a lot of fun.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Because I originally read this in high school English class, I always had the idea that this book was considered capital-L Literature, but I've since realized that it's actually rather trashy. It goes down smooth--quick and very easy to read.
This rereading left me with the idea of The Scarlet Pimpernel as the Twilight of its time, only with an adventure/historical fiction theme instead of fantasy. Between the melodrama and angst, the sweeping mysteries and secrets, the excessive physical descriptions, the sometimes lolarious writing...I'm sorry to say that I caught a resemblance.
That said, I really like The Scarlet Pimpernel. The late-night scene between Percy and Marguerite after the Lord Grenville's ball is a favorite. I have a hard time picturing Marguerite as a blue-eyed strawberry blonde, despite what Orczy has to say about it. - Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Surprisingly readable and enjoyable, even when it was being predictable. And I was on tenterhooks wondering how it would end.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5This classic has it all: humor, romance, adventure. What more could you ask for?
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5One of the better romance/adventures. The book is more Marguerite's story than the Scarlet Pimpernel's, unlike every stage and screen adaptation (so far as I'm aware). It leans towards melodrama at moments- to be expected of a book that follows the Tale of Two Cities version of the French Revolution, with numbers of executions happening daily in 1792 which weren't reached except for the worst parts of 1794- but the original duel identity hero who has influenced everything from Zorro to Batman holds his own in the test of time.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I was first exposed to The Scarlet Pimpernel by my ninth grade English teacher whose approach to teaching ninth grade English seems to have been getting literature down the throats of teenagers by any means necessary. More often than not, this meant showing us the movie version of novels rather than actually requiring us to read them. One spring day, we watched the 1982 version of The Scarlett Pimpernel with Anthony Andrews and Jane Seymour.
I was smitten.
Shortly thereafter, I found a used copy for sell at my local public library and for just $0.25 the world of Sir Percy Blakeney and Marguerite Blakeney was mine! I devoured it.
Twice smitten.
The Scarlet Pimpernel is a cat and mouse tale of an English nobleman who is hell-bent on saving his French counterparts from the bloody blade of the guillotine during the French Revolution. He has the annoying habit of leaving the symbol of red flower (a scarlet pimpernel, get it?) behind as a calling card and this has made everyone curious about his identity. The English have put him on a pedestal; the French have put a price on his head.
The book is filled with adventure, near-misses, secret identities, lies, espionage, shocking revelations, an arch-nemesis, and things that could/would never happen in real life, forcing you to suspend disbelief (just a tad). But that's why we read fiction, isn't it? I know there are a myriad of other reasons we read fiction, but sometimes it does come down to escapism, pure and simple.
However, despite all of the high drama, danger and excitement, there is a part of me that sees The Scarlett Pimpernel simply as a love story. Not as a simple love story; maybe, and perhaps more accurately, a love triangle along the lines of the Clark Kent-Lois Lane-Superman love triangle.
Marguerite is married to Sir Percy, but she is in love with the idea of another whose initials also are S.P. (hum...) Sir Percy seemed like a decent guy when she agreed to marry him but alas, now he seems doltish, and what's even worse, he seems quite indifferent to her. Sir Percy and Marguerite's marriage is in crisis. True, it's not as big a crisis as the French Revolution, but Baroness Orczy has skillfully juxtaposed one against the other. As the drama of the revolution plays out in the background and the world (well, France) falls apart, we can quietly explore the anatomy of a failing marriage (and possibly contemplate such questions as: How well can you really know the person closest to you? Do you only know what he/she chooses to reveal to you? Could you forgive the ultimate betrayal? Could those glasses really fool Lois Lane? Really?!)
In the end, The Scarlett Pimpernel is a sweet and tender tale that proves you can never hide your true essence from the one who loves you best.
Plus, it's about a hero. We can never have too many heroes. The Scarlet Pimpernel is one for the ages. - Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A great adventure story in the classic sense of adventure literature. Lots of "Zooks!" "Zounds!" and "Odds Fish!" in the dialog that, as far as I'm concerned, added to its charm. I thoroughly enjoyed and definitely recommend this book!
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5This is quite possibly my favorite classic. I love books that take place during the French Revolution. The derivative works such as the musical and movies were good, but nothing beats the book.
Book preview
The Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Emmuska Orczy
Escape
Chapter I
Paris: September, 1792
A surging, seething, murmuring crowd of beings that are human only in name, for to the eye and ear they seem naught but savage creatures, animated by vile passions and by the lust of vengeance and of hate. The hour, some little time before sunset, and the place, the West Barricade, at the very spot where, a decade later, a proud tyrant raised an undying monument to the nation’s glory and his own vanity.
During the greater part of the day the guillotine had been kept busy at its ghastly work: all that France had boasted of in the past centuries, of ancient names, and blue blood, had paid toll to her desire for liberty and for fraternity. The carnage had only ceased at this late hour of the day because there were other more interesting sights for the people to witness, a little while before the final closing of the barricades for the night.
And so the crowd rushed away from the Place de la Grève and made for the various barricades in order to watch this interesting and amusing sight.
It was to be seen every day, for those aristos were such fools! They were traitors to the people of course, all of them, men, women, and children, who happened to be descendants of the great men who since the Crusades had made the glory of France: her old noblesse. Their ancestors had oppressed the people, had crushed them under the scarlet heels of their dainty buckled shoes, and now the people had become the rulers of France and crushed their former masters—not beneath their heel, for they went shoeless mostly in these days—but a more effectual weight, the knife of the guillotine.
And daily, hourly, the hideous instrument of torture claimed its many victims—old men, young women, tiny children until the day when it would finally demand the head of a King and of a beautiful young Queen.
But this was as it should be: were not the people now the rulers of France? Every aristocrat was a traitor, as his ancestors had been before him: for two hundred years now the people had sweated, and toiled, and starved, to keep a lustful court in lavish extravagance; now the descendants of those who had helped to make those courts brilliant had to hide for their lives—to fly, if they wished to avoid the tardy vengeance of the people.
And they did try to hide, and tried to fly: that was just the fun of the whole thing. Every afternoon before the gates closed and the market carts went out in procession by the various barricades, some fool of an aristo endeavoured to evade the clutches of the Committee of Public Safety. In various disguises, under various pretexts, they tried to slip through the barriers, which were so well guarded by citizen soldiers of the Republic. Men in women’s clothes, women in male attire, children disguised in beggars’ rags: there were some of all sorts: ci-devant counts, marquises, even dukes, who wanted to fly from France, reach England or some other equally accursed country, and there try to rouse foreign feelings against the glorious Revolution, or to raise an army in order to liberate the wretched prisoners in the Temple, who had once called themselves sovereigns of France.
But they were nearly always caught at the barricades, Sergeant Bibot especially at the West Gate had a wonderful nose for scenting an aristo in the most perfect disguise. Then, of course, the fun began. Bibot would look at his prey as a cat looks upon the mouse, play with him, sometimes for quite a quarter of an hour, pretend to be hoodwinked by the disguise, by the wigs and other bits of theatrical make-up which hid the identity of a ci-devant noble marquise or count.
Oh! Bibot had a keen sense of humour, and it was well worth hanging round that West Barricade, in order to see him catch an aristo in the very act of trying to flee from the vengeance of the people.
Sometimes Bibot would let his prey actually out by the gates, allowing him to think for the space of two minutes at least that he really had escaped out of Paris, and might even manage to reach the coast of England in safety, but Bibot would let the unfortunate wretch walk about ten metres towards the open country, then he would send two men after him and bring him back, stripped of his disguise.
Oh! that was extremely funny, for as often as not the fugitive would prove to be a woman, some proud marchioness, who looked terribly comical when she found herself in Bibot’s clutches after all, and knew that a summary trial would await her the next day and after that, the fond embrace of Madame la Guillotine.
No wonder that on this fine afternoon in September the crowd round Bibot’s gate was eager and excited. The lust of blood grows with its satisfaction, there is no satiety: the crowd had seen a hundred noble heads fall beneath the guillotine to-day, it wanted to make sure that it would see another hundred fall on the morrow.
Bibot was sitting on an overturned and empty cask close by the gate of the barricade; a small detachment of citoyen soldiers was under his command. The work had been very hot lately. Those cursed aristos were becoming terrified and tried their hardest to slip out of Paris: men, women and children, whose ancestors, even in remote ages, had served those traitorous Bourbons, were all traitors themselves and right food for the guillotine. Every day Bibot had had the satisfaction of unmasking some fugitive royalists and sending them back to be tried by the Committee of Public Safety, presided over by that good patriot, Citoyen Foucquier-Tinville.
Robespierre and Danton both had commended Bibot for his zeal and Bibot was proud of the fact that he on his own initiative had sent at least fifty aristos to the guillotine.
But to-day all the sergeants in command at the various barricades had had special orders. Recently a very great number of aristos had succeeded in escaping out of France and in reaching England safely. There were curious rumours about these escapes; they had become very frequent and singularly daring; the people’s minds were becoming strangely excited about it all. Sergeant Grospierre had been sent to the guillotine for allowing a whole family of aristos to slip out of the North Gate under his very nose.
It was asserted that these escapes were organised by a band of Englishmen, whose daring seemed to be unparalleled, and who, from sheer desire to meddle in what did not concern them, spent their spare time in snatching away lawful victims destined for Madame la Guillotine. These rumours soon grew in extravagance; there was no doubt that this band of meddlesome Englishmen did exist; moreover, they seemed to be under the leadership of a man whose pluck and audacity were almost fabulous. Strange stories were afloat of how he and those aristos whom he rescued became suddenly invisible as they reached the barricades and escaped out of the gates by sheer supernatural agency.
No one had seen these mysterious Englishmen; as for their leader, he was never spoken of, save with a superstitious shudder. Citoyen Foucquier-Tinville would in the course of the day receive a scrap of paper from some mysterious source; sometimes he would find it in the pocket of his coat, at others it would be handed to him by someone in the crowd, whilst he was on his way to the sitting of the Committee of Public Safety. The paper always contained a brief notice that the band of meddlesome Englishmen were at work, and it was always signed with a device drawn in red—a little star-shaped flower, which we in England call the Scarlet Pimpernel. Within a few hours of the receipt of this impudent notice, the citoyens of the Committee of Public Safety would hear that so many royalists and aristocrats had succeeded in reaching the coast, and were on their way to England and safety.
The guards at the gates had been doubled, the sergeants in command had been threatened with death, whilst liberal rewards were offered for the capture of these daring and impudent Englishmen. There was a sum of five thousand francs promised to the man who laid hands on the mysterious and elusive Scarlet Pimpernel.
Everyone felt that Bibot would be that man, and Bibot allowed that belief to take firm root in everybody’s mind; and so, day after day, people came to watch him at the West Gate, so as to be present when he laid hands on any fugitive aristo who perhaps might be accompanied by that mysterious Englishman.
Bah!
he said to his trusted corporal, Citoyen Grospierre was a fool! Had it been me now, at that North Gate last week . . .
Citoyen Bibot spat on the ground to express his contempt for his comrade’s stupidity.
How did it happen, citoyen?
asked the corporal.
Grospierre was at the gate, keeping good watch,
began Bibot, pompously, as the crowd closed in round him, listening eagerly to his narrative. "We’ve all heard of this meddlesome Englishman, this accursed Scarlet Pimpernel. He won’t get through my gate, morbleu! unless he be the devil himself. But Grospierre was a fool. The market carts were going through the gates; there was one laden with casks, and driven by an old man, with a boy beside him. Grospierre was a bit drunk, but he thought himself very clever; he looked into the casks—most of them, at least—and saw they were empty, and let the cart go through."
A murmur of wrath and contempt went round the group of ill-clad wretches, who crowded round Citoyen Bibot.
Half an hour later,
continued the sergeant, "up comes a captain of the guard with a squad of some dozen soldiers with him. ‘Has a cart gone through?’ he asks of Grospierre, breathlessly. ‘Yes,’ says Grospierre, ‘not half an hour ago.’ ‘And you have let them escape,’ shouts the captain furiously. ‘You’ll go to the guillotine for this, citoyen sergeant! that cart held concealed the ci-devant Duc de Chalis and all his family!’ ‘What!’ thunders Grospierre, aghast. ‘Aye! and the driver was none other than that cursed Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpernel.’"
A howl of execration greeted this tale. Citoyen Grospierre had paid for his blunder on the guillotine, but what a fool! oh! what a fool!
Bibot was laughing so much at his own tale that it was some time before he could continue.
‘After them, my men,’ shouts the captain,
he said after a while, ‘remember the reward; after them, they cannot have gone far!’ And with that he rushes through the gate followed by his dozen soldiers.
But it was too late!
shouted the crowd, excitedly.
They never got them!
Curse that Grospierre for his folly!
He deserved his fate!
Fancy not examining those casks properly!
But these sallies seemed to amuse Citoyen Bibot exceedingly; he laughed until his sides ached, and the tears streamed down his cheeks.
Nay, nay!
he said at last, those aristos weren’t in the cart; the driver was not the Scarlet Pimpernel!
What?
No! The captain of the guard was that damned Englishman in disguise, and everyone of his soldiers aristos!
The crowd this time said nothing: the story certainly savoured of the supernatural, and though the Republic had abolished God, it had not quite succeeded in killing the fear of the supernatural in the hearts of the people. Truly that Englishman must be the devil himself.
The sun was sinking low down in the west. Bibot prepared himself to close the gates.
"En avant the carts," he said.
Some dozen covered carts were drawn up in a row, ready to leave town, in order to fetch the produce from the country close by, for market the next morning. They were mostly well known to Bibot, as they went through his gate twice every day on their way to and from the town. He spoke to one or two of their drivers—mostly women—and was at great pains to examine the inside of the carts.
You never know,
he would say, and I’m not going to be caught like that fool Grospierre.
The women who drove the carts usually spent their day on the Place de la Grève, beneath the platform of the guillotine, knitting and gossiping, whilst they watched the rows of tumbrils arriving with the victims the Reign of Terror claimed every day. It was great fun to see the aristos arriving for the reception of Madame la Guillotine, and the places close by the platform were very much sought after. Bibot, during the day, had been on duty on the Place. He recognized most of the old hats, tricotteuses,
as they were called, who sat there and knitted, whilst head after head fell beneath the knife, and they themselves got quite bespattered with the blood of those cursed aristos.
Hé! la mère!
said Bibot to one of these horrible hags, what have you got there?
He had seen her earlier in the day, with her knitting and the whip of her cart close beside her. Now she had fastened a row of curly locks to the whip handle, all colours, from gold to silver, fair to dark, and she stroked them with her huge, bony fingers as she laughed at Bibot.
I made friends with Madame Guillotine’s lover,
she said with a coarse laugh, he cut these off for me from the heads as they rolled down. He has promised me some more to-morrow, but I don’t know if I shall be at my usual place.
Ah! how is that, la mère?
asked Bibot, who, hardened soldier that he was, could not help shuddering at the awful loathsomeness of this semblance of a woman, with her ghastly trophy on the handle of her whip.
My grandson has got the small-pox,
she said with a jerk of her thumb towards the inside of her cart, some say it’s the plague! If it is, I sha’n’t be allowed to come into Paris to-morrow.
At the first mention of the word small-pox, Bibot had stepped hastily backwards, and when the old hag spoke of the plague, he retreated from her as fast as he could.
Curse you!
he muttered, whilst the whole crowd hastily avoided the cart, leaving it standing all alone in the midst of the place.
The old hag laughed.
Curse you, citoyen, for being a coward,
she said. Bah! what a man to be afraid of sickness.
"Morbleu! the plague!"
Everyone was awe-struck and silent, filled with horror for the loathsome malady, the one thing which still had the power to arouse terror and disgust in these savage, brutalised creatures.
Get out with you and with your plague-stricken brood!
shouted Bibot, hoarsely.
And with another rough laugh and coarse jest, the old hag whipped up her lean nag and drove her cart out of the gate.
This incident had spoilt the afternoon. The people were terrified of these two horrible curses, the two maladies which nothing could cure, and which were the precursors of an awful and lonely death. They hung about the barricades, silent and sullen for a while, eyeing one another suspiciously, avoiding each other as if by instinct, lest the plague lurked already in their midst. Presently, as in the case of Grospierre, a captain of the guard appeared suddenly. But he was known to Bibot, and there was no fear of his turning out to be a sly Englishman in disguise.
A cart, . . .
he shouted breathlessly, even before he had reached the gates.
What cart?
asked Bibot, roughly.
Driven by an old hag. . . . A covered cart . . .
There were a dozen . . .
An old hag who said her son had the plague?
Yes . . .
You have not let them go?
"Morbleu!" said Bibot, whose purple cheeks had suddenly become white with fear.
"The cart contained the ci-devant Comtesse de Tourney and her two children, all of them traitors and condemned to death."
And their driver?
muttered Bibot, as a superstitious shudder ran down his spine.
"Sacré tonnerre, said the captain,
but it is feared that it was that accursed Englishman himself—the Scarlet Pimpernel."
Chapter II
Dover: The Fisherman’s Rest
In the kitchen Sally was extremely busy—saucepans and frying-pans were standing in rows on the gigantic hearth, the huge stock-pot stood in a corner, and the jack turned with slow deliberation, and presented alternately to the glow every side of a noble sirloin of beef. The two little kitchen-maids bustled around, eager to help, hot and panting, with cotton sleeves well tucked up above the dimpled elbows, and giggling over some private jokes of their own, whenever Miss Sally’s back was turned for a moment. And old Jemima, stolid in temper and solid in bulk, kept up a long and subdued grumble, while she stirred the stock-pot methodically over the fire.
What ho! Sally!
came in cheerful if none too melodious accents from the coffee-room close by.
Lud bless my soul!
exclaimed Sally, with a good-humoured laugh, what be they all wanting now, I wonder!
Beer, of course,
grumbled Jemima, you don’t ’xpect Jimmy Pitkin to ’ave done with one tankard, do ye?
Mr. ’Arry, ’e looked uncommon thirsty too,
simpered Martha, one of the little kitchen-maids; and her beady black eyes twinkled as they met those of her companion, whereupon both started on a round of short and suppressed giggles.
Sally looked cross for a moment, and thoughtfully rubbed her hands against her shapely hips; her palms were itching, evidently, to come in contact with Martha’s rosy cheeks—but inherent good-humour prevailed, and with a pout and a shrug of the shoulders, she turned her attention to the fried potatoes.
What ho, Sally! hey, Sally!
And a chorus of pewter mugs, tapped with impatient hands against the oak tables of the coffee-room, accompanied the shouts for mine host’s buxom daughter.
Sally!
shouted a more persistent voice, are ye goin’ to be all night with that there beer?
I do think father might get the beer for them,
muttered Sally, as Jemima, stolidly and without further comment, took a couple of foam-crowned jugs from the shelf, and began filling a number of pewter tankards with some of that home-brewed ale for which The Fisherman’s Rest
had been famous since that days of King Charles. ’E knows ’ow busy we are in ’ere.
Your father is too busy discussing politics with Mr. ’Empseed to worry ’isself about you and the kitchen,
grumbled Jemima under her breath.
Sally had gone to the small mirror which hung in a corner of the kitchen, and was hastily smoothing her hair and setting her frilled cap at its most becoming angle over her dark curls; then she took up the tankards by their handles, three in each strong, brown hand, and laughing, grumbling, blushing, carried them through into the coffee room.
There, there was certainly no sign of that bustle and activity which kept four women busy and hot in the glowing kitchen beyond.
The coffee-room of The Fisherman’s Rest
is a show place now at the beginning of the twentieth century. At the end of the eighteenth, in the year of grace 1792, it had not yet gained the notoriety and importance which a hundred additional years and the craze of the age have since bestowed upon it. Yet it was an old place, even then, for the oak rafters and beams were already black with age—as were the panelled seats, with their tall backs, and the long polished tables between, on which innumerable pewter tankards had left fantastic patterns of many-sized rings. In the leaded window, high up, a row of pots of scarlet geraniums and blue larkspur gave the bright note of colour against the dull background of the oak.
That Mr. Jellyband, landlord of The Fisherman’s Rest
at Dover, was a prosperous man, was of course clear to the most casual observer. The pewter on the fine old dressers, the brass above the gigantic hearth, shone like silver and gold—the red-tiled floor was as brilliant as the scarlet geranium on the window sill—this meant that his servants were good and plentiful, that the custom was constant, and of that order which necessitated the keeping up of the coffee-room to a high standard of elegance and order.
As Sally came in, laughing through her frowns, and displaying a row of dazzling white teeth, she was greeted with shouts and chorus of applause.
Why, here’s Sally! What ho, Sally! Hurrah for pretty Sally!
I thought you’d grown deaf in that kitchen of yours,
muttered Jimmy Pitkin, as he passed the back of his hand across his very dry lips.
All ri’! all ri’!
laughed Sally, as she deposited the freshly-filled tankards upon the tables, why, what a ’urry to be sure! And is your gran’mother a-dyin’ an’ you wantin’ to see the pore soul afore she’m gone! I never see’d such a mighty rushin’
A chorus of good-humoured laughter greeted this witticism, which gave the company there present food for many jokes, for some considerable time. Sally now seemed in less of a hurry to get back to her pots and pans. A young man with fair curly hair, and eager, bright blue eyes, was engaging most of her attention and the whole of her time, whilst broad witticisms anent Jimmy Pitkin’s fictitious grandmother flew from mouth to mouth, mixed with heavy puffs of pungent tobacco smoke.
Facing the hearth, his legs wide apart, a long clay pipe in his mouth, stood mine host himself, worthy Mr. Jellyband, landlord of The Fisherman’s Rest,
as his father had before him, aye, and his grandfather and great-grandfather too, for that matter. Portly in build, jovial in countenance and somewhat bald of pate, Mr. Jellyband was indeed a typical rural John Bull of those days—the days when our prejudiced insularity was at its height, when to an Englishman, be he lord, yeoman, or peasant, the whole of the continent of Europe was a den of immorality and the rest of the world an unexploited land of savages and cannibals.
There he stood, mine worthy host, firm and well set up on his limbs, smoking his long churchwarden and caring nothing for nobody at home, and despising everybody abroad. He wore the typical scarlet waistcoat, with shiny brass buttons, the corduroy breeches, and grey worsted stockings and smart buckled shoes, that characterised every self-respecting innkeeper in Great Britain in these days—and while pretty, motherless Sally had need of four pairs of brown hands to do all the work that fell on her shapely shoulders, worthy Jellyband discussed the affairs of nations with his most privileged guests.
The coffee-room indeed, lighted by two well-polished lamps, which hung from the raftered ceiling, looked cheerful and cosy in the extreme. Through the dense clouds of tobacco smoke that hung about in every corner, the faces of Mr. Jellyband’s customers appeared red and pleasant to look at, and on good terms with themselves, their host and all the world; from every side of the room loud guffaws accompanied pleasant, if not highly intellectual, conversation—while Sally’s repeated giggles testified to the good use Mr. Harry Waite was making of the short time she seemed inclined to spare him.
They were mostly fisher-folk who patronised Mr. Jellyband’s coffee-room, but fishermen are known to be very thirsty people; the salt which they breathe in, when they are on the sea, accounts for their parched throats when on shore, but The Fisherman’s Rest
was something more than a rendezvous for these humble folk. The London and Dover coach started from the hostel daily, and passengers who had come across the Channel, and those who started for the grand tour,
all became acquainted with Mr. Jellyband, his French wines and his home-brewed ales.
It was towards the close of September, 1792, and the weather which had been brilliant and hot throughout the month had suddenly broken up; for two days torrents of rain had deluged the south of England, doing its level best to ruin what chances the apples and pears and late plums had of becoming really fine, self-respecting fruit. Even now it was beating against the leaded windows, and tumbling down the chimney, making the cheerful wood fire sizzle in the hearth.
Lud! did you ever see such a wet September, Mr. Jellyband?
asked Mr. Hempseed.
He sat in one of the seats inside the hearth, did Mr. Hempseed, for he was an authority and important personage not only at The Fisherman’s Rest,
where Mr. Jellyband always made a special selection of him as a foil for political arguments, but throughout the neighborhood, where his learning and notably his knowledge of the Scriptures was held in the most profound awe and respect. With one hand buried in the capacious pockets of his corduroys underneath his elaborately-worked, well-worn smock, the other holding his long clay pipe, Mr. Hempseed sat there looking dejectedly across the room at the rivulets of moisture which trickled down the window panes.
No,
replied Mr. Jellyband, sententiously, "I dunno, Mr. ’Empseed, as I ever did. An’ I’ve been in these parts nigh on