Louisa May Alcott - "Jo's Boys"

John Fox, Jr. - "The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come"

Lafayette - "Memoirs of General Lafayette"

Louis Antoine Fauvelet de Bourrienne - "Memoirs of Napoleon Bonaparte, v2"

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




And in the centre of the compact group, Sir Percy Blakeney in his
gorgeous suit of shimmering white satin, one knee bent upon a chair, and
leaning with easy grace--dice-box in hand--across the small gilt-legged
table; beside him ex-Ambassador Chauvelin, standing with arms folded
behind his back, watching every movement of his brilliant adversary like
some dark-plumaged hawk hovering near a bird of paradise.

"Place first, Monsieur?" suggested Sir Percy.

"As you will, sir," assented Chauvelin.

He took up a dice-box which one of the gentlemen handed to him and the
two men threw.

"'Tis mine, Monsieur," said Blakeney carelessly, "mine to name the place
where shall occur this historic encounter, 'twixt the busiest man in France
and the most idle fop that e'er disgraced these three kingdoms. ... Just for
the sake of argument, sir, what place would you suggest?"

"Oh! the exact spot is immaterial, Sir Percy," replied Chauvelin coldly,
"the whole of France stands at your disposal."

"Aye! I thought as much, but could not be quite sure of such boundless
hospitality," retorted Blakeney imperturbably.

"Do you care for the woods around Paris, sir?"

"Too far from the coast, sir. I might be sea-sick crossing over the
Channel, and glad to get the business over as soon as possible. ... No, not
Paris, sir--rather let us say Boulogne. ... Pretty little place, Boulogne ...
do you not think so ...?"

"Undoubtedly, Sir Percy."

"Then Boulogne it is .. the ramparts, an you will, on the south side of the
town."

"As you please," rejoined Chauvelin drily. "Shall we throw again?"

A murmur of merriment had accompanied this brief colloquy between the
adversaries, and Blakeney's bland sallies were received with shouts of
laughter. Now the dice rattled again and once more the two men threw.

"'Tis yours this time, Monsieur Chauvelin," said Blakeney, after a rapid
glance at the dice. "See how evenly Chance favours us both. Mine, the
choice of place ... admirably done you'll confess. ... Now yours the choice
of time. I wait upon your pleasure, sir. ... The southern ramparts at
Boulogne--when?"

"The fourth day from this, sir, at the hour when the Cathedral bell chimes
the evening Angelus," came Chauvelin's ready reply.

"Nay! but methought that your demmed government had abolished
Cathedrals, and bells and chimes. ... The people of France have now to
go to hell their own way ... for the way to heaven has been barred by the
National Convention. ... Is that not so? ... Methought the Angelus was
forbidden to be rung."

"Not at Boulogne, I think, Sir Percy," retorted Chauvelin drily, "and I'll
pledge you my word that the evening Angelus shall be rung that night."

"At what hour is that, sir?"

"One hour after sundown."

"But why four days after this? Why not two or three?"

"I might have asked, why the southern ramparts, Sir Percy; why not the
western? I chose the fourth day--does it not suit you?" asked Chauvelin
ironically.

"Suit me! Why, sir, nothing could suit me better," rejoined Blakeney
with his pleasant laugh. "Zounds! but I call it marvellous ... demmed
marvellous ... I wonder now," he added blandly, "what made you think of
the Angelus?"

Everyone laughed at this, a little irrelevantly perhaps.

"Ah!" continued Blakeney gaily, "I remember now. ... Faith! to think that
I was nigh forgetting that when last you and I met, sir, you had just taken
or were about to take Holy Orders. ... Ah! how well the thought of the
Angelus fits in with your clerical garb. ... I recollect that the latter was
mightily becoming to you, sir ..."

"Shall we proceed to settle the conditions of the fight, Sir Percy?" said
Chauvelin, interrupting the flow of his antagonist's gibes, and trying to
disguise his irritation beneath a mask of impassive reserve.

"The choice of weapons you mean," here interposed His Royal Highness,
"but I thought that swords had already been decided on."

"Quite so, your Highness," assented Blakeney, "but there are various
little matters in connection with this momentous encounter which are of
vast importance. ... Am I not right, Monsieur? ... Gentlemen, I appeal to
you. ... Faith! one never knows ... my engaging opponent here might
desire that I should fight him in green socks, and I that he should wear a
scarlet flower in his coat."

"The Scarlet Pimpernel, Sir Percy?"

"Why not, Monsieur? It would look so well in your buttonhole, against
the black of the clerical coat, which I understand you sometime affect in
France ... and when it is withered and quite dead you would find that it
would leave an overpowering odour in your nostrils, far stronger than
that of incense."

There was general laughter after this. The hatred which every member of
the French revolutionary government--including, of course, ex-
Ambassador Chauvelin--bore to the national hero was well known.

"The conditions then, Sir Percy," said Chauvelin, without seeming to
notice the taunt conveyed in Blakeney's last words. "Shall we throw
again?"

"After you, sir," acquiesced Sir Percy.

For the third and last time the two opponents rattled the dice-box and
threw. Chauvelin was now absolutely unmoved. These minor details
quite failed to interest him. What mattered the conditions of the fight
which was only intended as a bait with which to lure his enemy in the
open? The hour and place were decided on and Sir Percy would not fail
to come. Chauvelin knew enough of his opponent's boldly adventurous
spirit not to feel in the least doubtful on that point. Even now, as he
gazed with grudging admiration at the massive, well-knit figure of his
arch-enemy, noted the thin nervy hands and square jaw, the low, broad
forehead and deep-set, half-veiled eyes, he knew that in this matter
wherein Percy Blakeney was obviously playing with his very life, the only
emotion that really swayed him at this moment was his passionate love of
adventure.

The ruling passion strong in death!

Yes! Sir Percy would be on the southern ramparts of Boulogne one hour
after sunset on the day named, trusting, no doubt, in his usual marvellous
good-fortune, his own presence of mind and his great physical and mental
strength, to escape from the trap into which he was so ready to walk.

That remained beyond a doubt! Therefore what mattered details?

But even at this moment, Chauvelin had already resolved on one great
thing: namely, that on that eventful day, nothing whatever should be left
to Chance; he would meet his cunning enemy not only with cunning, but
also with power, and if the entire force of the republican army then
available in the north of France had to be requisitioned for the purpose,
the ramparts of Boulogne would be surrounded and no chance of escape
left for the daring Scarlet Pimpernel.

His wave of meditation, however, was here abruptly stemmed by
Blakeney's pleasant voice.

"Lud! Monsieur Chauvelin," he said, "I fear me your luck has deserted
you. Chance, as you see, has turned to me once more."

"Then it is for you, Sir Percy," rejoined the Frenchman, "to name the
conditions under which we are to fight."

"Ah! that is so, is it not, Monsieur?" quoth Sir Percy lightly. "By my
faith! I'll not plague you with formalities. ... We'll fight with our coats on
if it be cold, in our shirtsleeves if it be sultry. ... I'll not demand either
green socks or scarlet ornaments. I'll even try and be serious for the
space of two minutes, sir, and confine my whole attention--the product of
my infinitesimal brain--to thinking out some pleasant detail for this duel,
which might be acceptable to you. Thus, sir, the thought of weapons
springs to my mind. ... Swords you said, I think. Sir! I will e'en restrict
my choice of conditions to that of the actual weapons with which we are
to fight. ... Ffoulkes, I pray you," he added, turning to his friend, "the pair
of swords which lie across the top of my desk at this moment. ...

"We'll not ask a menial to fetch them, eh, Monsieur?" he continued gaily,
as Sir Andrew Ffoulkes at a sign from him had quickly left the room.
"What need to bruit our pleasant quarrel abroad? You will like the
weapons, sir, and you shall have your own choice from the pair. ... You
are a fine fencer, I feel sure ... and you shall decide if a scratch or two or
a more serious wound shall be sufficient to avenge Mademoiselle
Candeille's wounded vanity."

Whilst he prattled so gaily on, there was dead silence among all those
present. The Prince had his shrewd eyes steadily fixed upon him,
obviously wondering what this seemingly irresponsible adventurer held at
the back of his mind. There is no doubt that everyone felt oppressed, and
that a strange murmur of anticipatory excitement went round the little
room, when, a few seconds later, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes returned, with
two sheathed swords in his hand.

Blakeney took them from his friend and placed them on the little table in
front of ex-Ambassador Chauvelin. The spectators strained their necks
to look at the two weapons. They were exactly similar one to the other:
both encased in plain black leather sheaths, with steel ferrules polished to
shine like silver; the handles too were of plain steel, with just the grip
fashioned in a twisted basket pattern of the same highly-tempered metal.

"What think you of these weapons, Monsieur?" asked Blakeney, who
was carelessly leaning against the back of a chair.

Chauvelin took up one of the two swords and slowly drew it from out its
scabbard, carefully examining the brilliant, narrow steel blade as he did
so.

"A little old-fashioned in style and make, Sir Percy," he said, closely
imitating his opponent's easy demeanour, "a trifle heavier, perhaps, than
we in France have been accustomed to lately, but, nevertheless, a
beautifully tempered piece of steel."

"Of a truth there's not much the matter with the tempering, Monsieur,"
quoth Blakeney, "the blades were fashioned at Toledo just two hundred
years ago."

"Ah! here I see an inscription," said Chauvelin, holding the sword close
to his eyes, the better to see the minute letters engraved in the steel.

"The name of the original owner. I myself bought them--when I travelled
in Italy--from one of his descendants."

"Lorenzo Giovanni Cenci," said Chauvelin, spelling the Italian names
quite slowly.

"The greatest blackguard that ever trod this earth. You, no doubt,
Monsieur, know his history better than we do. Rapine, theft, murder,
nothing came amiss to Signor Lorenzo ... neither the deadly drug in the
cup nor the poisoned dagger."

He had spoken lightly, carelessly, with that same tone of easy banter
which he had not forsaken throughout the evening, and the same drawly
manner which was habitual to him. But at these last words of his,
Chauvelin gave a visible start, and then abruptly replaced the sword--
which he had been examining--upon the table.

He threw a quick, suspicious glance at Blakeney, who, leaning back
against the chair and one knee resting on the cushioned seat, was idly
toying with the other blade, the exact pair to the one which the ex-
ambassador had so suddenly put down.

"Well, Monsieur," quoth Sir Percy after a slight pause, and meeting with
a swift glance of lazy irony his opponent's fixed gaze. "Are you satisfied
with the weapons? Which of the two shall be yours, and which mine?"

"Of a truth, Sir Percy ..." murmured Chauvelin, still hesitating.

"Nay, Monsieur," interrupted Blakeney with pleasant bonhomie, "I know
what you would say ... of a truth, there is no choice between this pair of
perfect twins: one is as exquisite as the other. ... And yet you must take
one and I the other ... this or that, whichever you prefer. ... You shall
take it home with you to-night and practise thrusting at a haystack or at a
bobbin, as you please. .. The sword is yours to command until you have
used it against my unworthy person ... yours until you bring it out four
days hence--on the southern ramparts of Boulogne, when the cathedral
bells chime the evening Angelus; then you shall cross it against its
faithless twin. ... There, Monsieur--they are of equal length ... of equal
strength and temper ... a perfect pair ... Yet I pray you choose."

He took up both the swords in his hands and carefully balancing them by
the extreme tip of their steel-bound scabbards, he held them out towards
the Frenchman. Chauvelin's eyes were fixed upon him, and he from his
towering height was looking down at the little sable-clad figure before
him.

The Terrorist seemed uncertain what to do. Though he was one of those
men whom by the force of their intellect, the strength of their enthusiasm,
the power of their cruelty, had built a new anarchical France, had
overturned a throne and murdered a king, yet now, face to face with this
affected fop, this lazy and debonnair adventurer, he hesitated--trying in
vain to read what was going on behind that low, smooth forehead or
within the depth of those lazy, blue eyes.

He would have given several years of his life at this moment for one short
glimpse into the innermost brain cells of this daring mind, to see the man
start, quiver but for the fraction of a second, betray himself by a tremor
of the eyelid. What counterplan was lurking in Percy Blakeney's head, as
he offered to his opponent the two swords which had once belonged to
Lorenzo Cenci?

Did any thought of foul play, of dark and deadly poisonings linger in the
fastidious mind of this accomplished gentleman?

Surely not!

Chauvelin tried to chide himself for such fears. It seemed madness even
to think of Italian poisons, of the Cencis or the Borgias in the midst of
this brilliantly lighted English drawing-room.

But because he was above all a diplomatist, a fencer with words and with
looks, the envoy of France determined to know, to probe and to read.
He forced himself once more to careless laughter and nonchalance of
manner and schooled his lips to smile up with gentle irony at the good-
humoured face of his arch-enemy.

He tapped one of the swords with his long pointed finger.

"Is this the one you choose, sir?" asked Blakeney.

"Nay! which do you advise, Sir Percy," replied Chauvelin lightly. "Which
of those two blades think you is most like to hold after two hundred
years the poison of the Cenci?"

But Blakeney neither started nor winced. He broke into a laugh, his own
usual pleasant laugh, half shy and somewhat inane, then said in tones of
lively astonishment:

"Zounds! sir, but you are full of surprises. ... Faith! I never would have
thought of that. ...Marvellous, I call it ... demmed marvellous. ... What
say you, gentlemen? ... Your Royal Highness, what think you? ... Is not
my engaging friend here of a most original turn of mind. ... Will you have
this sword or that, Monsieur? ... Nay, I must insist--else we shall weary
our friends if we hesitate too long. ... This one then, sir, since you have
chosen it," he continued, as Chauvelin finally took one of the swords in
his hand. "And now for a bowl of punch. ... Nay, Monsieur, 'twas
demmed smart what you said just now ... I must insist on your joining us
in a bowl. ... Such wit as yours, Monsieur, must need whetting at times.
... I pray you repeat that same sally again ..."

Then finally turning to the Prince and to his friends, he added:

"And after that bowl, gentlemen, shall we rejoin the ladies?"





Chapter XIII : Reflections



It seemed indeed as if the incident were finally closed, the chief actors in
the drama having deliberately vacated the centre of the stage.

The little crowd which had stood in a compact mass round the table,
began to break up into sundry small groups: laughter and desultory talk,
checked for a moment by that oppressive sense of unknown danger,
which had weighed on the spirits of those present, once more became
general. Blakeney's light-heartedness had put everyone into good-
humour; since he evidently did not look upon the challenge as a matter of
serious moment, why then, no one else had any cause for anxiety, and the
younger men were right glad to join in that bowl of punch which their
genial host had offered with so merry a grace.

Lacqueys appeared, throwing open the doors. From a distance the sound
of dance music once more broke upon the ear.

A few of the men only remained silent, deliberately holding aloof from
the renewed mirthfulness. Foremost amongst these was His Royal
Highness, who was looking distinctly troubled, and who had taken Sir
Percy by the arm, and was talking to him with obvious earnestness. Lord
Anthony Dewhurst and Lord Hastings were holding converse in a
secluded corner of the room, whilst Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, as being the
host's most intimate friend, felt it incumbent on him to say a few words to
ex-Ambassador Chauvelin.

The latter was desirous of effecting a retreat. Blakeney's invitation to
join in the friendly bowl of punch could not be taken seriously, and the
Terrorist wanted to be alone, in order to think out the events of the past
hour.

A lacquey waited on him, took the momentous sword from his hand,
found his hat and cloak and called his coach for him: Chauvelin having
taken formal leave of his host and acquaintances, quickly worked his way
to the staircase and hall, through the less frequented apartments.

He sincerely wished to avoid meeting Lady Blakeney face to face. Not
that the slightest twinge of remorse disturbed his mind, but he feared
some impulsive action on her part, which indirectly might interfere with
his future plans. Fortunately no one took much heed of the darkly-clad,
insignificant little figure that glided so swiftly by, obviously determined to
escape attention.

In the hall he found Demoiselle Candeille waiting for him. She, too, had
evidently been desirous of leaving Blakeney Manor as soon as possible.
He saw her to her chaise; then escorted her as far as her lodgings, which
were close by: there were still one or two things which he wished to
discuss with her, one or two final instructions which he desired to give.

One the whole, he was satisfied with his evening's work: the young
actress had well supported him, and had played her part so far with
marvellous sang-froid and skill. Sir Percy, whether willingly or blindly,
had seemed only too ready to walk into the trap which was being set for
him.

This fact alone disturbed Chauvelin not a little, and as half an hour or so
later, having taken final leave of his ally, he sat alone in the coach, which
was conveying him back to town, the sword of Lorenzo Cenci close to
his hand, he pondered very seriously over it.

That the adventurous Scarlet Pimpernel should have guessed all along,
that sooner or later the French Revolutionary Government-- whom he
had defrauded of some of its most important victims,--would desire to be
even with him, and to bring him to the scaffold, was not to be wondered
at. But that he should be so blind as to imagine that Chauvelin's
challenge was anything else but a lure to induce him to go to France,
could not possible be supposed. So bold an adventurer, so keen an
intriguer was sure to have scented the trap immediately, and if he
appeared ready to fall into it, it was because there had already sprung up
in his resourceful mind some bold coup or subtle counterplan, with which
he hoped to gratify his own passionate love of sport, whilst once more
bringing his enemies to discomfiture and humiliation.

Undoubtedly Sir Percy Blakeney, as an accomplished gentleman of the
period, could not very well under the circumstances which had been so
carefully stage-managed and arranged by Chauvelin, refuse the latter's
challenge to fight him on the other side of the Channel. Any hesitation on
the part of the leader of that daring Scarlet Pimpernel League would have
covered him with a faint suspicion of pusillanimity, and a subtle breath of
ridicule, and in a moment the prestige of the unknown and elusive hero
would have vanished forever.

But apart from the necessity of the fight, Blakeney seemed to enter into
the spirit of the plot directed against his own life, with such light-hearted
merriment, such zest and joy, that Chauvelin could not help but be
convinced that the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel at Boulogne or
elsewhere would not prove quite so easy a matter as he had at first
anticipated.

That same night he wrote a long and circumstantial letter to his
colleague, Citizen Robespierre, shifting thereby, as it were, some of the
responsibility of coming events from his own shoulders on to the
executive of the Committee of Public Safety.

"I guarantee to you, Citizen Robespierre," he wrote, "and to the members
of the Revolutionary Government who have entrusted me with the
delicate mission, that four days from this date at one hour after sunset,
the man who goes by the mysterious name of the Scarlet Pimpernel, will
be on the ramparts of Boulogne on the south side of the town. I have
done what has been asked of me. On that day and at that hour, I shall
have brought the enemy of the Revolution, the intriguer against the
policy of the republic, within the power of the government which he has
flouted and outraged. Now look to it, citizens all, that the fruits of my
diplomacy and of my skill be not lost to France again. The man will be
there at my bidding, 'tis for you to see that he does not escape this time."

This letter he sent by special courier which the National Convention had
placed at his disposal in case of emergency. Having sealed it and
entrusted it to the man, Chauvelin felt at peace with the world and with
himself. Although he was not so sure of success as he would have
wished, he yet could not see _how_ failure could possibly come about:
and the only regret which he felt to-night, when he finally in the early
dawn sought a few hours' troubled rest, was that that momentous fourth
day was still so very far distant.





Chapter XIV : The Ruling Passion



In the meanwhile silence had fallen over the beautiful old manorial house.
One by one the guests had departed, leaving that peaceful sense of
complete calm and isolation which follows the noisy chatter of any great
throng bent chiefly on enjoyment.

The evening had been universally acknowledged to have been brilliantly
successful. True, the much talked of French artiste had not sung the
promised ditties, but in the midst of the whirl and excitement of dances,
of the inspiring tunes of the string band, the elaborate supper and
recherche wines, no one had paid much heed to this change in the
programme of entertainments.

And everyone had agreed that never had Lady Blakeney looked more
radiantly beautiful than on this night. She seemed absolutely
indefatigable; a perfect hostess, full of charming little attentions towards
every one, although more than ordinarily absorbed by her duties towards
her many royal guests.

The dramatic incidents which had taken place in the small boudoir had
not been much bruited abroad. It was always considered bad form in
those courtly days to discuss men's quarrels before ladies, and in this
instance, those who were present when it all occurred instinctively felt
that their discretion would be appreciated in high circles, and held their
tongues accordingly.

Thus the brilliant evening was brought to a happy conclusion without a
single cloud to mar the enjoyment of the guests. Marguerite performed a
veritable miracle of fortitude, forcing her very smiles to seem natural and
gay, chatting pleasantly, even wittily, upon every known fashionable
topic of the day, laughing merrily the while her poor, aching heart was
filled with unspeakable misery.

Now, when everybody had gone, when the last of her guests had bobbed
before her the prescribed curtsey, to which she had invariably responded
with the same air of easy self-possession, now at last she felt free to give
rein to her thoughts, to indulge in the luxury of looking her own anxiety
straight in the face and to let the tension of her nerves relax.

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been the last to leave and Percy had strolled out
with him as far as the garden gate, for Lady Ffoulkes had left in her
chaise some time ago, and Sir Andrew meant to walk to his home, not
many yards distant from Blakeney Manor.

In spite of herself Marguerite felt her heartstrings tighten as she thought
of this young couple so lately wedded. People smiled a little when Sir
Andrew Ffoulkes' name was mentioned, some called him effeminate,
other uxorious, his fond attachment for his pretty little wife was thought
to pass the bounds of decorum. There was no doubt that since his
marriage the young man had greatly changed. His love of sport and
adventure seemed to have died out completely, yielding evidently to the
great, more overpowering love, that for his young wife.

Suzanne was nervous for her husband's safety. She had sufficient
influence over him to keep him at home, when other members of the
brave little League of The Scarlet Pimpernel followed their leader with
mad zest, on some bold adventure.

Marguerite too at first had smiled in kindly derision when Suzanne
Ffoulkes, her large eyes filled with tears, had used her wiles to keep Sir
Andrew tied to her own dainty apronstrings. But somehow, lately, with
that gentle contempt which she felt for the weaker man, there had
mingled a half-acknowledged sense of envy.