T.S. Arthur - "The Iron Rule"

Gustave Droz - "Monsieur, Madame and Bebe, v1"

Anthony Trollope - "The Parson's Daughter of Oxney Colne"

Charlotte M. Yonge - "My Young Alcides"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: The Elusive Pimpernel

B >> Baroness Emmuska Orczy [Full name] >> The Elusive Pimpernel




That Percy would never write that infamous letter and LIVE, she knew.
That he might write it in order to save her, she feared was possible,
whilst the look of triumph on Chauvelin's face had aroused her most
agonizing terrors.

When she was summarily ordered to go into the next room, she realized
at once that all hope now was more than futile. The walls lined with
troops, the attitude of her enemies, and above all that table with paper,
ink and pens ready as it were for the accomplishment of the hideous and
monstrous deed, all made her very heart numb, as if it were held within
the chill embrace of death.

"If the woman moves, speaks or screams, gag her at once!" said Collot
roughly the moment she sat down, and Sergeant Hebert stood over her,
gag and cloth in hand, whilst two soldiers placed heavy hands on her
shoulders.

But she neither moved nor spoke, not even presently when a loud and
cheerful voice came echoing from a distant corridor, and anon the door
opened and her husband came in, accompanied by Chauvelin.

The ex-ambassador was very obviously in a state of acute nervous
tension; his hands were tightly clasped behind his back, and his
movements were curiously irresponsible and jerky. But Sir Percy
Blakeney looked a picture of calm unconcern: the lace bow at his throat
was tied with scrupulous care, his eyeglass upheld at quite the correct
angle, and his delicate-coloured caped coat was thrown back just
sufficiently to afford a glimpse of the dainty cloth suit and exquisitely
embroidered waistcoat beneath.

He was the perfect presentation of a London dandy, and might have been
entering a royal drawing-room in company with an honoured guest.
Marguerite's eyes were riveted on him as he came well within the circle
of light projected by the candles, but not even with that acute sixth sense
of a passionate and loving woman could she detect the slightest tremor in
the aristocratic hands which held the gold-rimmed eyeglass, nor the
faintest quiver of the firmly moulded lips.

This had occurred just as the bell of the old Beffroi chimed three-quarters
after six. Now it was close on seven, and in the centre of the room and
with his face and figure well lighted up by the candles, at the table pen in
hand sat Sir Percy writing.

At his elbow just behind him stood Chauvelin on the one side and Collot
d'Herbois on the other, both watching with fixed and burning eyes the
writing of that letter.

Sir Percy seemed in no hurry. He wrote slowly and deliberately, carefully
copying the draft of the letter which was propped up in front of him. The
spelling of some of the French words seemed to have troubled him at
first, for when he began he made many facetious and self-deprecatory
remarks anent his own want of education, and carelessness in youth in
acquiring the gentle art of speaking so elegant a language.

Presently, however, he appeared more at his ease, or perhaps less inclined
to talk, since he only received curt monosyllabic answers to his pleasant
sallies. Five minutes had gone by without any other sound, save the
spasmodic creak of Sir Percy's pen upon the paper, the while Chauvelin
and Collot watched every word he wrote.

But gradually from afar there had arisen in the stillness of evening a
distant, rolling noise like that of surf breaking against the cliffs. Nearer
and louder it grew, and as it increased in volume, so it gained now in
diversity. The monotonous, roll-like, far-off thunder was just as
continuous as before, but now shriller notes broke out from amongst the
more remote sounds, a loud laugh seemed ever and anon to pierce the
distance and to rise above the persistent hubbub, which became the mere
accompaniment to these isolated tones.

The merrymakers of Boulogne, having started from the Place de la
Senechaussee, were making the round of the town by the wide avenue
which tops the ramparts. They were coming past the Fort Gayole,
shouting, singing, brass trumpets in front, big drum ahead, drenched, hot,
and hoarse, but supremely happy.

Sir Percy looked up for a moment as the noise drew neared, then turned
to Chauvelin and pointing to the letter, he said:

"I have nearly finished!"

The suspense in the smoke-laden atmosphere of this room was becoming
unendurable, and four hearts at least were beating wildly with
overpowering anxiety. Marguerite's eyes were fixed with tender intensity
on the man she so passionately loved. She did not understand his actions
or his motives, but she felt a wild longing in her, to drink in every line of
that loved face, as if with this last, long look she was bidding an eternal
farewell to all hopes of future earthly happiness.

The old priest had ceased to tell his beads. Feeling in his kindly heart the
echo of the appalling tragedy which was being enacted before him, he
had put out a fatherly, tentative hand towards Marguerite, and given her
icy fingers a comforting pressure.

And in the hearts of Chauvelin and his colleague there was satisfied
revenge, eager, exultant triumph and that terrible nerve-tension which
immediately precedes the long-expected climax.

But who can say what went on within the heart of that bold adventurer,
about to be brought to the lowest depths of humiliation which it is in the
power of man to endure? What behind that smooth unruffled brow still
bent laboriously over the page of writing?

The crowd was now on the Place Daumont; some of the foremost in the
ranks were ascending the stone steps which lead to the southern
ramparts. The noise had become incessant: Pierrots and Pierrettes,
Harlequins and Columbines had worked themselves up into a veritable
intoxication of shouts and laughter.

Now as they all swarmed up the steps and caught sight of the open
window almost on a level with the ground, and of the large dimly-lighted
room, they gave forth one terrific and voluminous "Hurrah!" for the
paternal government up in Paris, who had given them cause for all this
joy. Then they recollected how the amnesty, the pardon, the national fete,
this brilliant procession had come about, and somebody in the crowd
shouted:

"Allons! les us have a look at that English spy! ..."

"Let us see the Scarlet Pimpernel!"

"Yes! yes! let us see what he is like!"

They shouted and stamped and swarmed round the open window,
swinging their lanthorns and demanding in a loud tone of voice that the
English spy be shown to them.

Faces wet with rain and perspiration tried to peep in at the window.
Collot gave brief orders to the soldiers to close the shutters at once and
to push away the crowd, but the crowd would not be pushed. It would
not be gainsaid, and when the soldiers tried to close the window, twenty
angry fists broke the panes of glass.

"I can't finish this writing in your lingo, sir, whilst this demmed row is
going on," said Sir Percy placidly.

"You have not much more to write, Sir Percy," urged Chauvelin with
nervous impatience, "I pray you, finish the matter now, and get you gone
from out this city."

"Send that demmed lot away, then," rejoined Sir Percy calmly.

"They won't go. ... They want to see you ..."

Sir Percy paused a moment, pen in hand, as if in deep reflection.

"They want to see me," he said with a laugh. "Why, demn it all ... then,
why not let em? ..."

And with a few rapid strokes of the pen, he quickly finished the letter,
adding his signature with a bold flourish, whilst the crowd, pushing,
jostling, shouting and cursing the soldiers, still loudly demanded to see
the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Chauvelin felt as if his heart would veritably burst with the wildness of its
beating.

Then Sir Percy, with one hand lightly pressed on the letter, pushed his
chair away and with his pleasant ringing voice, said once again:

"Well! demn it ... let 'em see me! ..."

With that he sprang to his feet and up to his full height, and as he did so
he seized the two massive pewter candlesticks, one in each hand, and
with powerful arms well outstretched he held them high above his head.

"The letter ..." murmured Chauvelin in a hoarse whisper.

But even as he was quickly reaching out a hand, which shook with the
intensity of his excitement, towards the letter on the table, Blakeney, with
one loud and sudden shout, threw the heavy candlesticks onto the floor.
They rattled down with a terrific crash, the lights were extinguished, and
the whole room was immediately plunged in utter darkness.

The crowd gave a wild yell of fear: they had only caught sight for one
instant of that gigantic figure--which, with arms outstretched had seemed
supernaturally tall--weirdly illumined by the flickering light of the tallow
candles and the next moment disappearing into utter darkness before
their very gaze. Overcome with sudden superstitious fear, Pierrots and
Pierrettes, drummer and trumpeters turned and fled in every direction.

Within the room all was wild confusion. The soldiers had heard a cry:

"La fenetre! La fenetre!"

Who gave it no one knew, no one could afterwards recollect: certain it is
that with one accord the majority of the men made a rush for the open
window, driven thither partly by the wild instinct of the chase after an
escaping enemy, and partly by the same superstitious terror which had
caused the crowd to flee. They clambered over the sill and dropped down
on to the ramparts below, then started in wild pursuit.

But when the crash came, Chauvelin had given one frantic shout:

"The letter!!! ... Collot!! ... A moi. ... In his hand. ... The letter! ..."

There was the sound of a heavy thud, of a terrible scuffle there on the
floor in the darkness and then a yell of victory from Collot d'Herbois.

"I have the letter! A Paris!"

"Victory!" echoed Chauvelin, exultant and panting, "victory!! The
Angelus, friend Hebert! Take the calotin to ring the Angelus!!!"

It was instinct which caused Collot d'Herbois to find the door; he tore it
open, letting in a feeble ray of light from the corridor. He stood in the
doorway one moment, his slouchy, ungainly form distinctly outlined
against the lighter background beyond, a look of exultant and malicious
triumph, of deadly hate and cruelty distinctly imprinted on his face and
with upraised hand wildly flourishing the precious document, the brand of
dishonour for the enemy of France.

"A Paris!" shouted Chauvelin to him excitedly. "Into Robespierre's hands.
... The letter! ..."

Then he fell back panting, exhausted on the nearest chair.

Collot, without looking again behind him, called wildly for the men who
were to escort him to Paris. They were picked troopers, stalwart veterans
from the old municipal guard. They had not broken their ranks
throughout the turmoil, and fell into line in perfect order as they followed
Citizen Collot out of the room.

Less than five minutes later there was the noise of stamping and
champing of bits in the courtyard below, a shout from Collot, and the
sound of a cavalcade galloping at break-neck speed towards the distant
Paris gate.





Chapter XXXIV : The Angelus



And gradually all noises died away around the old Fort Gayole. The
shouts and laugher of the merrymakers, who had quickly recovered from
their fright, now came only as the muffled rumble of a distant storm,
broken here and there by the shrill note of a girl's loud laughter, or a
vigorous fanfare from the brass trumpets.

The room where so much turmoil had taken place, where so many hearts
had beaten with torrent-like emotions, where the awesome tragedy of
revenge and hate, of love and passion had been consummated, was now
silent and at peace.

The soldiers had gone: some in pursuit of the revellers, some with Collot
d'Herbois, others with Hebert and the calotin who was to ring the
Angelus.

Chauvelin, overcome with the intensity of his exultation and the agony of
the suspense which he had endured, sat, vaguely dreaming, hardly
conscious, but wholly happy and content. Fearless, too, for his triumph
was complete, and he cared not now if he lived or died.

He had lived long enough to see the complete annihilation and dishonour
of his enemy.

What had happened to Sir Percy Blakeney now, what to Marguerite, he
neither knew nor cared. No doubt the Englishman had picked himself up
and got away through the window or the door: he would be anxious to
get his wife out of the town as quickly as possible. The Angelus would
ring directly, the gates would be opened, the harbour made free to
everyone. ...

And Collot was a league outside Boulogne by now ... a league nearer to
Paris.

So what mattered the humbled wayside English flower?--the damaged
and withered Scarlet Pimpernel? ...

A slight noise suddenly caused him to start. He had been dreaming, no
doubt, having fallen into some kind of torpor, akin to sleep, after the
deadly and restless fatigue of the past four days. He certainly had been
unconscious of everything around him, of time and of place. But now he
felt fully awake.

And again he heard that slight noise, as if something or someone was
moving in the room.

He tried to peer into the darkness, but could distinguish nothing. He rose
and went to the door. It was still open, and close behind it against the
wall a small oil lamp was fixed which lit up the corridor.

Chauvelin detached the lamp and came back with it into the room. Just as
he did so there came to his ears the first sound of the little church bell
ringing the Angelus.

He stepped into the room holding the lamp high above his head; its feeble
rays fell full upon the brilliant figure of Sir Percy Blakeney.

He was smiling pleasantly, bowing slightly towards Chauvelin, and in his
hand he held the sheathed sword, the blade of which had been fashioned
in Toledo for Lorenzo Cenci, and the fellow of which was lying now--
Chauvelin himself knew not where.

"The day and hour, Monsieur, I think," said Sir Percy with courtly grace,
"when you and I are to cross swords together; those are the southern
ramparts, meseems. Will you precede, sir? and I will follow."

At sight of this man, of his impudence and of his daring, Chauvelin felt an
icy grip on his heart. His cheeks became ashen white, his thin lips closed
with a snap, and the hand which held the lamp aloft trembled visibly. Sir
Percy stood before him, still smiling and with a graceful gesture pointing
towards the ramparts.

From the Church of St. Joseph the gentle, melancholy tones of the
Angelus sounding the second Ave Maria came faintly echoing in the
evening air.

With a violent effort Chauvelin forced himself to self-control, and tried to
shake off the strange feeling of obsession which had overwhelmed him in
the presence of this extraordinary man. He walked quite quietly up to the
table and placed the lamp upon it. As in a flash recollection had come
back to him .. the past few minutes! ... the letter! and Collot well on his
way to Paris!

Bah! he had nothing to fear now, save perhaps death at the hand of this
adventurer turned assassin in his misery and humiliation!

"A truce on this folly, Sir Percy," he said roughly, "as you well know, I
had never any intention of fighting you with these poisoned swords of
yours and ..."

"I knew that, M. Chauvelin. ... But do YOU know that I have the
intention of killing you now ... as you stand ... like a dog! ..."

And throwing down the sword with one of those uncontrolled outbursts
of almost animal passion, which for one instant revealed the real, inner
man, he went up to Chauvelin and towering above him like a great
avenging giant, he savoured for one second the joy of looking down on
that puny, slender figure which he could crush with sheer brute force,
with one blow from his powerful hands.

But Chauvelin at this moment was beyond fear.

"And if you killed me now, Sir Percy," he said quietly and looking the
man whom he so hated fully in the eyes, "you could not destroy that
letter which my colleague is taking to Paris at this very moment."

As he had anticipated, his words seemed to change Sir Percy's mood in
an instant. The passion in the handsome, aristocratic face faded in a trice,
the hard lines round the jaw and lips relaxed, the fire of revenge died out
from the lazy blue eyes, and the next moment a long, loud, merry laugh
raised the dormant echoes of the old fort.

"Nay, Monsieur Chaubertin," said Sir Percy gaily, "but this is marvellous
... demmed marvellous ... do you hear that, m'dear? ... Gadzooks! but 'tis
the best joke I have heard this past twelve-months. ... Monsieur here
thinks ... Lud! but I shall die of laughing. ... Monsieur here thinks ... that
'twas that demmed letter which went to Paris ... and that an English
gentleman lay scuffling on the floor and allowed a letter to be filched
from him ..."

"Sir Percy! ..." gasped Chauvelin, as an awful thought seemed suddenly
to flash across his fevered brain.

"Lud, sir, you are astonishing!" said Sir Percy, taking a very much
crumpled sheet of paper from the capacious pocket of his elegant caped
coat, and holding it close to Chauvelin's horror-stricken gaze. "THIS is
the letter which I wrote at that table yonder in order to gain time and in
order to fool you. ... But, by the Lord, you are a bigger demmed fool
than ever I took you to be, if you thought it would serve any other
purpose save that of my hitting you in the face with it."

And with a quick and violent gesture he struck Chauvelin full in the face
with the paper.

"You would like to know, Monsieur Chaubertin, would you not? ..." he
added pleasantly, "what letter it is that your friend, Citizen Collot, is
taking in such hot haste to Paris for you. ... Well! the letter is not long
and 'tis written in verse. ... I wrote it myself upstairs to-day whilst you
thought me sodden with brandy and three-parts asleep. But brandy is
easily flung out of the window. ... Did you think I drank it all? ... Nay! as
you remember, I told you that I was not so drunk as you thought? ...
Aye! the letter is writ in English verse, Monsieur, and it reads thus:

"We seek him here! we seek him there! Those Frenchies seek him
everywhere! Is he in heaven? is he in hell? That demmed elusive
Pimpernel?

"A neat rhyme, I fancy, Monsieur, and one which will, if rightly
translated, greatly please your friend and ruler, Citizen Robespierre. ...
Your colleague Citizen Collot is well on his way to Paris with it by now.
... No, no, Monsieur ... as you rightly said just now ... I really could not
kill you ... God having blessed me with the saving sense of humour ..."

Even as he spoke the third Ave Maria of the Angelus died away on the
morning air. From the harbour the old Chateau there came the loud boom
of cannon.

The hour of the opening of the gates, of the general amnesty and free
harbour was announced throughout Boulogne.

Chauvelin was livid with rage, fear and baffled revenge. He made a
sudden rush for the door in a blind desire to call for help, but Sir Percy
had toyed long enough with his prey. The hour was speeding on: Hebert
and some of the soldiers might return, and it was time to think of safety
and of flight. Quick as a hunted panther, he had interposed his tall figure
between his enemy and the latter's chance of calling for aid, then, seizing
the little man by the shoulders, he pushed him back into that portion of
the room where Marguerite and the Abbe Foucquet had been lately
sitting.

The gag, with cloth and cord, which had been intended for a woman
were lying on the ground close by, just where Hebert had dropped them,
when he marched the old Abbe off to the Church.

With quick and dexterous hands, Sir Percy soon reduced Chauvelin to an
impotent and silent bundle. The ex-ambassador after four days of
harrowing nerve-tension, followed by so awful a climax, was weakened
physically and mentally, whilst Blakeney, powerful, athletic and always
absolutely unperturbed, was fresh in body and spirit. He had slept calmly
all the afternoon, having quietly thought out all his plans, left nothing to
chance, and acted methodically and quickly, and invariably with perfect
repose.

Having fully assured himself that the cords were well fastened, the gag
secure and Chauvelin completely helpless, he took the now inert mass up
in his arms and carried it into the adjoining room, where Marguerite for
twelve hours had endured a terrible martyrdom.

He laid his enemy's helpless form upon the couch, and for one moment
looked down on it with a strange feeling of pity quite unmixed with
contempt. The light from the lamp in the further room struck vaguely
upon the prostrate figure of Chauvelin. He seemed to have lost
consciousness, for the eyes were closed, only the hands, which were tied
securely to his body, had a spasmodic, nervous twitch in them.

With a good-natured shrug of the shoulders the imperturbable Sir Percy
turned to go, but just before he did so, he took a scrap of paper from his
waistcoat pocket, and slipped it between Chauvelin's trembling fingers.
On the paper were scribbled the four lines of verse which in the next four
and twenty hours Robespierre himself and his colleagues would read.

Then Blakeney finally went out of the room.





Chapter XXXV : Marguerite



As he re-entered the large room, she was standing beside the table, with
one dainty hand resting against the back of the chair, her whole graceful
figure bent forward as if in an agony of ardent expectation.

Never for an instant, in that supreme moment when his precious life was
at stake, did she waver in courage or presence of mind. From the moment
that he jumped up and took the candlesticks in his hands, her sixth sense
showed her as in a flash what he meant to do and how he would wish her
to act.

When the room was plunged in darkness she stood absolutely still; when
she heard the scuffle on the floor she never trembled, for her passionate
heart had already told her that he never meant to deliver that infamous
letter into his enemies' hands. Then, when there was the general scramble,
when the soldiers rushed away, when the room became empty and
Chauvelin alone remained, she shrank quietly into the darkest corner of
the room, hardly breathing, only waiting. ... Waiting for a sign from him!

She could not see him, but she felt the beloved presence there,
somewhere close to her, and she knew that he would wish her to wait. ...
She watched him silently ... ready to help if he called ... equally ready to
remain still and to wait.

Only when the helpless body of her deadly enemy was well out of the
way did she come from out the darkness, and now she stood with the full
light of the lamp illumining her ruddy golden hair, the delicate blush on
her cheek, the flame of love dancing in her glorious eyes.

Thus he saw her as he re-entered the room, and for one second he paused
at the door, for the joy of seeing her there seemed greater than he could
bear.

Forgotten was the agony of mind which he had endured, the humiliations
and the dangers which still threatened: he only remembered that she
loved him and that he worshipped her.

The next moment she lay clasped in his arms. All was still around them,
save for the gentle patter-patter of the rain on the trees of the ramparts:
and from very far away the echo of laughter and music from the distant
revellers.

And then the cry of the sea-mew thrice repeated from just beneath the
window.

Blakeney and Marguerite awoke from their brief dream: once more the
passionate lover gave place to the man of action.

"'Tis Tony, an I mistake not," he said hurriedly, as with loving fingers still
slightly trembling with suppressed passion, he readjusted the hood over
her head.

"Lord Tony?" she murmured.

"Aye! with Hastings and one or two others. I told them to be ready for us
to-night as soon as the place was quiet."

"You were so sure of success then, Percy?" she asked in wonderment.

"So sure," he replied simply.

Then he led her to the window, and lifted her onto the sill. It was not
high from the ground and two pairs of willing arms were there ready to
help her down.

Then he, too, followed, and quietly the little party turned to walk toward
the gate. The ramparts themselves now looked strangely still and silent:
the merrymakers were far away, only one or two passers-by hurried
swiftly past here and there, carrying bundles, evidently bent on making
use of that welcome permission to leave this dangerous soil.

The little party walked on in silence, Marguerite's small hand resting on
her husband's arm. Anon they came upon a group of soldiers who were
standing somewhat perfunctorily and irresolutely close by the open gate
of the Fort.

"Tiens c'est l'Anglais!" said one.

"Morbleu! he is on his way back to England," commented another lazily.

The gates of Boulogne had been thrown open to everyone when the
Angelus was rung and the cannon boomed. The general amnesty had
been proclaimed, everyone had the right to come and go as they pleased,
the sentinels had been ordered to challenge no one and to let everyone
pass.

No one knew that the great and glorious plans for the complete
annihilation of the Scarlet Pimpernel and his League had come to naught,
that Collot was taking a mighty hoax to Paris, and that the man who had
thought out and nearly carried through the most fiendishly cruel plan ever
conceived for the destruction of an enemy, lay helpless, bound and
gagged, within his own stronghold.