The written story of Sir Percy Blakeney's one fault and one savior - to love Marguerite St. Just.
Prequel to "The Scarlet Pimpernel' by Baroness Orczy. All characters and the Baroness's basic story plot are not my own. Written in humble, attempted immitation of her style.
(it takes place, of course, in Paris, before the Revolution is in full swing and BEFORE Percy is ... *puts finger to lips* ... the scarlet pimpernel)
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"The Maison Moliere"
Prequel to "The Scarlet Pimpernel' by Baroness Orczy. All characters and the Baroness's basic story plot are not my own. Written in humble, attempted immitation of her style.
(it takes place, of course, in Paris, before the Revolution is in full swing and BEFORE Percy is ... *puts finger to lips* ... the scarlet pimpernel)
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"The Maison Moliere"
'Twas late June and the French countryside had adorned itself in heavenly essence of deep midsummer. The whole world was a gigantic bouquet of flowery scents and savors, and though spring was quite gone away the air held in it that tantalizing fragrance of new life and new love.
Paris, Le Theatre-Francais. Guests poured within the white columned structure, barricaded in boxes full of latest French styles and squashy faced dowagers, powdered heads, aristocrats loitering for the curtain call and the entertainment of the evening. The leading actress in her new promotion of pensionnaire, was well known and adored, everyone mightily well bedecked and bejeweled. There were a number in the crowded boxes known in public society, known for their political standing or fashionable presence. The rest were the ones who craned their necks to peak at a gown done up in latest fashion, or a newly engaged couple with old maiden aunt chaperone.
The hall full of a buzzing, murmuring, clambering, awaiting audience, ready and eager to be made to forget of the country's trying upheaval's of late and lose themselves in comedie. Most were here for such, and the rest because there simply was no better waste of time. Ladies's fans began a constant whoosh-whoosh as the heat of the body alighted to smother the air, impatience growing.
Within a small box, not close to the stage yet still a comfortable distance within which to hear and to see the actors perform their various roles, a little party waited. Count de Tourney sat at the front, a taller, younger man sitting at his side. A few others who accompanied with them - Lord Durand and his wife and daughter - stationed to the back of the loge but the two men seemed indisposed for conversation with any but between themselves. The younger, an Englishman, so twas said, and an aristocrat, very likely visiting the city for the summer.
But what mattered the English and their king whilst France's own monarchy had been put into prison, "by the will of the people"? Bah! A people, more of dogs and wolves then men and women! Each day growing more hungry for blood and more willing to shed it!
None can contrive reason to admit such atrocities as rank and distinction could silence, until a plain people's suffering turns to revolt, or, rather, revolution.
Revolution, but a snake that then feeds upon it's own tail when starved. And, fast, the movement of the peoples of France became increasingly an amassed chaos then justice. Dogs fighting dogs, and some, who's motives had been all too pure, malled when attempted peace amongst them, bitten back to their quiet and silenced corners. Yes, beyond, in the streets and miserable corners of Paris, seething revolt raged, whilst all turned their heads, pretending to not heed, but they would and did hear.
None can contrive reason to admit such atrocities as rank and distinction could silence, until a plain people's suffering turns to revolt, or, rather, revolution.
Revolution, but a snake that then feeds upon it's own tail when starved. And, fast, the movement of the peoples of France became increasingly an amassed chaos then justice. Dogs fighting dogs, and some, who's motives had been all too pure, malled when attempted peace amongst them, bitten back to their quiet and silenced corners. Yes, beyond, in the streets and miserable corners of Paris, seething revolt raged, whilst all turned their heads, pretending to not heed, but they would and did hear.
"Ah, but these are dangerous, sad times, my friend," the count de Tourney announced to his companion in the same low tone with which they'd conversed for half the evening.
"And how so for you, good de Tourney?"
The pleasant, unperturbed voice belonged to the Englishman, who sat well back in his gilded, velvet cushioned chair, quite at ease, unlike his older friend who near nervously awaited the rising of the certain. Though de Tourney was not unsociable as might've seemed to the observers, who tossed glances and intrigued looks towards the box whence the English mil'lor established residence, he became only preoccupied, whilst the later lounged in apt lazy contentedness.
De Tourney scorned and adjusted position as if the seat had become a bramble bush. "Bah, but for us all!" A sudden intimate tone beguiling the man's voice, he turned upon his old friend's son."There is hardly a moment of peace, my boy," as if they might be overheard, "The monarchy fallen, the Bastille taken! The king and queen, the little dauphin, tossed into prisons like common burglars and murders! Ze Gods! You cannot be ignorant of the state of things, I am sure, English though you be. And we - all of us so very snug and safe in these very boxes - are the next prey, those of us who have had no share in the terrors inflicted but are blamed, still, being born into the families God ordained us. Aye, dangerous, sad times for mine self and mine family alike, I swear!"
Sir Percy Blakeney, eyes heavy lidded, as if he were quite bored or quiet inclined to no disturbance over what de Tourney had just related with hasty and heated words, turned his head and a quaint little smile turned up his strong mouth. He had an air of the dandy, from the delightful peach hued coat and Mechlin lace about the high collars, to every stitch of cloth tailored perfection as utmost periodical flamboyance allotted. A hand, thin and slender, lay limply from the arm of the chair, half lost amidst the same filmy lace. Immaculate, debonaire, an epitome of tasteful extravagance, the man was all irresponsible candor. A sunny lightness of manner equal with the fully British, fully aristocratic distinct of a baronet, yes, yes, none would denounce him being handsome.
Yet, though there could be nothing reproachable in his manners, the Englishman had an air of indifferent superciliousness that degraded his gratifying appearance and title. He surveyed the crowded boxes and tiers, not seeming to have heard his friend, looking for someone it seemed until, dissatisfied, he sighed as if terribly wearied.
"Begad, my dear de Tourney, and what might we do?" in drawling, almost placid, monotonous tones habitual to Sir Percy.
Somehow the light sally served to quail the momentary passions which prevailed upon the moment.
"Le bon Dieu knows. We can, will sit here, forget all the chaos beyond these walls, as the rest," deprecated the French count with a sudden relaxed air as he sank back into his own chair, forgetting, it would seem, his sudden zealot vehemence. "Lisse les morts ensevelir leurs morts, no?"
The words, however indifferent, were spoken with vast contemptuous bitterness. De Tourney was not a foolish nor rash man, yet the words mayhap heard by the wrong people would've sounded treasonous in the ears of the new founded republic of France. Even now, though spoken scarce above a hush lost in a crowd.
As to answer him, the loud taps sounded from the stage, announcing the beginning of the play. There was a great noise of bustling and shushing, then it died as the rich red curtains drew open. The younger man did not stir nor sit more erect in his languorous manner, keeping eyes almost closed, near to slumber.
De Tourney allowed a slight sigh of exasperation escape his lips and whilst the play opened, he paid less heed then did the other man.
The play had half began, and, though amusing, Sir Percy's interest was mayhap less then it should've been.
That was, until, coming from the stage through the dimmed air of the house, and to his ears, a sound. A woman, yes, speaking with gusto, flippancy, in her act. But who spoke, whom did this magic strain utter from? He must know ...
He sat up, rigidly, causing de Tourney's attention to defer to the stage to himself.
The play had half began, and, though amusing, Sir Percy's interest was mayhap less then it should've been.
That was, until, coming from the stage through the dimmed air of the house, and to his ears, a sound. A woman, yes, speaking with gusto, flippancy, in her act. But who spoke, whom did this magic strain utter from? He must know ...
He sat up, rigidly, causing de Tourney's attention to defer to the stage to himself.
All his stupid state would allow into words was,"... Whom is she?"
"Ah, the actress ... ," came the voice of his companion, monotoned and as if a bit bored, "Mademoiselle is Marguerite St. Just. You have not seen her act, I understand, beforesaid? But, aye, she's Paris's most up and coming artiste, said to break a dozen hearts in one night then any countess or duchess in France wouldst in a year."
"Marguerite Saint Juste..."
The words fell in such a hallowed, prayer like falter that de Tourney actually laughed. He'd not misunderstand the perception of Blakeney's sudden arduous interest, whilst he'd seemed so tedious all evening. He'd merely been so unlucky a one to flounder full into the trap all of Paris had been weaved - the sight and sound of a beautiful woman. Yet, instantaneously, Blakeney stiffened or relaxed, either of which he slumped back into the cushioned chair with a loud, melancholy yawn.
"Demmed pretty woman, I must admit..." simply enough. Indeed, it seemed he were but momentarily moved and losing interest already.
"Pretty, aye. The women's an angelic being sent from Heaven or Hell, we know not. But she's pleasant enough to listen to. I've an acquaintance with the brother, but hardly with the charming actress herself. The lad had a squirmsh with the St. Cyr a few years ago, hushed up by friends and the man himself, I fear. T'would seem he was very in love with the daughter. But ... after the play ... if an introduction would suit you...?" letting the younger man a knowing look, half restrained though it were.
But Blakeney did not hear. If he did, his brain did not heed ... for there, upon the stage ... what must he be dreaming? Exquisiteness! loveliness to be heard by mortal ears! But the face! ah, the face quite made even the utopian song that was her voice fade to the excited recesses of his mind.
Bedecked in crimson and gold gown, just almost lost amidst it's many hoops and frou-frou, Marguerite St. Just was pale and slender, taller then the average, baring the advantage with the gracefulness of a bending rose. Tiny hands reached appealingly towards the audience in her act as the heroine of Moliere, soft full down curved lips and expressive eyes of the lightest, brightest blue he could call to remembrance. Her hair, unset with powder, a glorious auburn, fell freer then most styles bade, swaying with every gesture and movement.
Yes, how easy it was that a lonely, wealth-plagued English gentleman should fall into love with the exhilarating pathos of her childish face, so wreathed with smiles then frowns, heartbreak then joyous gayity, the tone of her mellow, entrancing words. He was not yet eight and twenty, and his heart had been broken many a time but never for the cause of a woman's love. Indeed, even amidst all the conquests for the heart of Sir Percy Blakeney, non had been victorious against the pleasant, ineffectual solace of temperament.
But, oh, the dignity and grace which she moved, to one side of the stage to the other, now again she would cast her look perhaps to the very box within which he sat... What had become of him? A quick flush spread across his pale face, the strong lips twitched then tightened, his brow furrowed deeply in agitated, calmed wonder. Even the slender fingers and hand clenched in resolve to stop this thing so fast to consuming him. How could this be?
And when the first act closed, he found nothing would give way in his mind to that but of the thought of Marguerite St. Just's lovely countenance. The whole while, as the scenes and acts ticked away the evening, de Tourney did not fail to see the restlessness in his young friend, wholly unlike then his usual self-possessed, boredly menial manner. He sat, outwardly very calm, but when that voice came from some distant land of staged fantasy, Blakeney's mouth tightened, and something not unakin to a pained expression crossing lightly over his features caused a look of amused pity from the older man.
Moliere's play had commenced, the troupe of actors bowed, the curtain's pulled to closing, upon the still clapping applaud rumbling the whole house. A sea of sated onlookers rose and began exiting. De Tourney arose and said something to the little party that made them all laugh, and they too began filing out.
"... what say you, Blakney?"
"Hmm, did you speak-?"
"I'd mentioned that the night seemed prone to rain, and we should get on..."
In a moment, Sir Percy had roused himself and returned to his light, debonaire airs. Naught seemed to have drenched his humorous manners as he declared, "Aye, ... but we shan't get out at all right away ... no, no, come and we shall await here until the crowds abated themselves, for I doubt we could get out the door in this hectic body. The lady's whilst, I'm sure, 'excuse us for a few moments ... to allow them to retreat to their carriage...," bowing with courtliest graces to Lady Durand and her daughter.
Moliere's play had commenced, the troupe of actors bowed, the curtain's pulled to closing, upon the still clapping applaud rumbling the whole house. A sea of sated onlookers rose and began exiting. De Tourney arose and said something to the little party that made them all laugh, and they too began filing out.
"... what say you, Blakney?"
"Hmm, did you speak-?"
"I'd mentioned that the night seemed prone to rain, and we should get on..."
In a moment, Sir Percy had roused himself and returned to his light, debonaire airs. Naught seemed to have drenched his humorous manners as he declared, "Aye, ... but we shan't get out at all right away ... no, no, come and we shall await here until the crowds abated themselves, for I doubt we could get out the door in this hectic body. The lady's whilst, I'm sure, 'excuse us for a few moments ... to allow them to retreat to their carriage...," bowing with courtliest graces to Lady Durand and her daughter.
They of course made no objection, the half asleep Lord Durand shushed and begged them to be on or they should be rained upon. All bade "auidu" to the Englishman and de Tourney, leaving the two gentlemen in the silence of the theater box.
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WOOT WOOT WOOT!
Chapter one posted.
I almost had a panic attack over this, but .. ALAS! tis completed. Now I can sleep in peace until next Saturday ... ehehe!
And, yea, de Tourney's a jabber box but whatever. Percy was smitten, and dialogue doesn't come to peeps in love.
*falls into bed* BYYE.
"Lisse les morts ensevelir lemurs morts" - "Let the dead bury their dead", the words of Jesus
