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Updated: June 2, 2025
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.
Marguerite laughed heartily as Sir Andrew tried to describe Blakeney's appearance, whose gravest difficulty always consisted in his great height, which in France made disguise doubly difficult. Thus an hour wore on. There were many more to spend in enforced inactivity in Dover. Marguerite rose from the table with an impatient sigh.
A Blakeney had died on Bosworth field, another had sacrified life and fortune for the sake of a treacherous Stuart: and that same pride foolish and prejudiced as the republican Armand would call it must have been stung to the quick on hearing of the sin which lay at Lady Blakeney's door. She had been young, misguided, ill-advised perhaps.
Fresh from a pleasant sojourn in his own magnificent home, full of the spirit of adventure which puts the essence of life into a man's veins, Sir Percy Blakeney's splendid physique was pitted against my feeble powers. Of course I lost the battle. I made the mistake of trying to subdue a man who was in the zenith of his strength, whereas now " "Yes, citizen Chauvelin," she said, "whereas now "
He wrapped his cloak tightly around him. It was a good step yet to Blakeney's lodgings, where he knew that he was expected. He struck quickly into the Rue St.
Marguerite, rigid as a statue followed with hard, set eyes the upright figure, as it disappeared through the doorway but as little Suzanne, humble and obedient, was about to follow her mother, the hard, set expression suddenly vanished, and a wistful, almost pathetic and childlike look stole into Lady Blakeney's eyes.
In the meanwhile Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had cautiously worked his way down the cliffs: he stopped once or twice, pausing to listen for whispered words, which would guide him to Blakeney's hiding-place. "Blakeney!" he ventured to say at last cautiously, "Blakeney! are you there?"
And he began to dictate slowly, watching every word as it left Blakeney's pen. "'I cannot stand my present position any longer. Citizen Heron, and also M. Chauvelin Yes, Sir Percy, Chauvelin, not Chambertin ... C, H, A, U, V, E, L, I, N.... That is quite right 'have made this prison a perfect hell for me." Sir Percy looked up from his writing, smiling.
He would at this moment have given half his fortune for knowledge of the exact time. But through all this weary waiting he was never for a moment in doubt. Unlike Armand St. Just, he had the simplest, most perfect faith in his chief. He had been Blakeney's constant companion in all these adventures for close upon four years now; the thought of failure, however vague, never once entered his mind.
Jellyband was at great pains how to make his important guest comfortable. Both of these good folk were far too well drilled in the manners appertaining to innkeepers, to exhibit the slightest surprise at Lady Blakeney's arrival, alone, at this extraordinary hour.
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