Of Dreams and Madness
The light burns low in Sir Percy Blakeney's study...
Libertie, Fraternatie, Egalite! Bread, give us bread! Vive la Republic!
Dreams, dreams. Dreams are for the night-time, and it is night-time in Sir Percy Blakeney's study in Richmond, where a single candle burns on the heavy writing desk, guttering occasionally when the writer thrusts aside each sheet of paper in its turn.
Ça ira, Ça ira! A la lanterne les aristos! Mort sans phrases!
Madness, madness. Madness is for the day-time, at least in France these days, and it is of France and her sons and daughters that the Scarlet Pimpernel thinks and plans and writes of now. The Comte de Tournay has fled, none knows whither. The Comtesse, the young Vicomte, and Mademoiselle Suzanne lie in the Temple prison, and it is madness to think that anything can save them from the howling mob of the Plas de la Revolution, or the fond embraces of Madam la Guillotine. It is a madness twenty Englishmen, one to command and nineteen to obey, are prepared to stake their lives on.
A final press of signet ring in red ink, and Sir Percy lays down his pen and stretches his cramped arms back into the enveloping shadows of the study. The whole of fashionable London society, even his wife, believes a comfortable armchair for Sir Percy's sweet slumbers must be the most prominent item of furniture in this room. And yet there is no such thing. The huge desk, this hard straight chair that cramps a man's frame, two maps of France and the Bouchier portrait: that is all.
In the shadows, the maps vanish, but the flickering candle light is just enough to play upon the portrait, catching the figure of the former Lady Blakeney but not the frame. Her son turns slowly to stare at it. "Eh, Mother?"
If a man would live a double life, he needs must not be a babbler; but if a man would live, he needs must talk sometime. And there is no-one else. His loyal band listens and obeys. The whole of fashionable London society hangs upon his every inane utterance. Neither of them share the watches of the night.
"Gad! but sometimes you look real," Sir Percy continues the conversation. "As if you are going to step off that demmed wall, and come and look over my shoulder. What would you say, Mother? Eh?"
There is silence, and the candle goes on flickering.
"Demmed madness... A candle flame to set a man dreaming, eh, Mother? Dreaming, or..."
The shadows are still silent, and in the silence, the Scarlet Pimpernel dreams. Dreams of looking round to see the door has opened; to see a small, white figure standing behind him; to see the candle light catch red glints of gold in her hair; to feel a small hand laid on his shoulder and a soft voice asking if he is not, indeed, sitting up rather late? If he does not, indeed, want some company until he has finished?
And Sir Percy Blakeney leans back in his chair and laughs, his slow, drawling, mocking, inane laugh. It is dangerous to dream. That way lies madness.