The Wayside Pimpernel
First, an explanation, and a disclaimer.
Some time ago I found a fanfiction work (which I have not been able to find again recently) which retold The Highwayman, a poem by Alfred Noyes, featuring the Pimpernel as its titular hero. I thought at the time, 'what a brilliant concept!' The only problem was, the ending was exactly the same as the famous poem - far too tragic an end for our favourite British chevalier. And so, I resolved to write a new version, one with a more appropriate ending. And I did - in doing so, I created an epic almost twice as long as the original.
For some time now, I have liked the poem, but didn't know what to do with it. I finally resolved to post it here. I'm not sure if the original poem is in the public domain, but then it is significantly changed for this story, so hopefully it is not so much an issue. Also, I apologize to the original adaptee of the poem to the Pimpernel's purpose, whoever you are; I poached what was a rather ingenious idea from you, but carried it out to a different fruition.
If for either of these reasons anyone objects to my posting the story here, I shall delete it without complaint.
Otherwise, please enjoy. I hope I did not mutilate the poem's original meter too badly.
To Mr. Noyes, and to that unknown fanfic author - I dedicate this to you. Also, briefly, to Mr. Poe.
Sincerely,
~ W.J.
PART ONE
THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the forest floor,
And the Pimpernel came riding—
Riding—riding—
The Scarlet Pimpernel came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He'd a chapeau-bras on his forehead, Mechlin lace at his chin,
A many-caped coat thrown back to reveal the spotless suit within;
It fitted with never a wrinkle: culottes cut off at the knee!
Impeccably dressed from toe to top,
Sir Percy, that hopeless English fop,
On the dusty road in the moonlight; such an unlikely sight to see!
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he rode to a pair of shutters, that alone weren't locked and barred;
He made a cry like a seamew, and who should be waiting there
But the beautiful Marguerite Blakeney,
née St Just, now Lady Blakeney
Arranging a wreath of scarlet flowers upon her golden hair.
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Jean the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
Greed flickered in his beady eyes-
The Pimpernel, worth a wealthy prize!
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the Anglais say—
"One kiss, beloved, I'm off to Paris; I'll ride throughout the night
There I shall save many a soul that trembles now in fright;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the gold cascade of perfume fell, low enough for him to kiss;
He kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, gold waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped towards Paris.
PART TWO
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was an aristo's ribbon, looping the forest floor,
Gendarmes came marching—
Marching—marching—
The Revolution's wolves came marching, up to the old inn-door.
And who was that man at their head? sable coat folded 'cross his breast;
The red, white, and blue cockade pinned there upon his shallow chest
Those eyes, so cold and cunning, those lips, so cruel and thin—
From the Committee of Public Safety;
The man who threatened her husband's safety;
Member of the Committee of Public Safety, Citizen Chauvelin!
The National Guard settled itself inside the old homestead,
Whilst Chauvelin gagged Marguerite and bound her to the foot of her bed;
Two men knelt at her casement, with bayonets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For she could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a coarse jest;
They had bound a pistol beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now, keep good watch!" and they cursed her.
She heard her beloved say—
"Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!"
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! They heard it! The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Chauvelin's heart swelled with joy, whilst Marguerite's shrank with fear
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The Pimpernel came riding,
Riding, riding!
The gendarmes looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath-
But before her finger moved in the moonlight,
He seemed to swoon in the moonlight;
He fell from the horse's saddle, and seemed to have fallen to his death.
PART THREE
Not a shot had yet been fired; Chauvelin widened his eyes
There he lay, stretched out in the dust; there lay his hard-earned prize!
He gave his orders to his men; at a word they did obey,
Out of the inn, they went a-creeping,
Along the road, they went a-creeping,
To where, sprawled upon the road, there lay their helpless prey!
Chauvelin, as the moon disappeared, peered out into the gloom,
And Marguerite felt her brave lover had finally met his doom.
The time that passed seemed to last an eternity or more,
When suddenly there came a tapping,
A sudden, gentle tapping,
As if someone were gently rapping, rapping at the chamber door
And now into the room the landlord came with shuffling gait
Marguerite watched him curiously; Chauvelin was irate
Short-tempered with nerves, he asked him: "Citizen, what do you mean?
Traitor! You sheltered this aristo,
And if now you try to help this aristo,
I personally shall see you slain beneath the guillotine!"
Those three alone stood in the room; the landlord, doubly bent,
Had the most crooked back ever to be owned by any a gent
Yet Chauvelin felt a thrill of fear, sharper than any knife;
For those calmly watching eyes,
The landlord's calmly watching eyes,
Those lazy-looking, deep blue eyes- they brimmed with reckless life!
Marguerite saw a spark of hope within that crooked form
Whose clothes were filthy tatters, and whose chin was left unshorn
Whose eyes twinkled good-naturedly, though the jaw was firmly set
Whose familiar laughing, mirth-filled voice,
That oh! so well-remembered voice,
The voice that said, "La, Chambertin! My neck is not yours yet!"
He now unbent his broad back, until he stood quite straight,
And Marguerite's eyes lit up with love, whilst Chauvelin's burnt with hate
He towered over his enemy; he seemed unnaturally huge
Here stood the man all France hated,
The man the English celebrated-
There he stood in the moonlight, the elusive Mouron Rouge
Later, when the gendarmes had finally come back,
To report the horse had only thrown a dummy on the track,
At the foot of the bed they found, securely bound and gagged,
The limp form of Chauvelin,
The defeated 'Monsieur Chambertin',
The unfortunate Chauvelin, whose fainting form there sagged
And what of the two aristos? The one they had tied to the bed,
And the one they thought had fallen from his horse and broke his head?
Both had somehow disappeared; by magic, so it seemed.
That demmed elusive Pimpernel,
That infuriating Pimpernel,
The lady and her Pimpernel were on board the Daydream.
PART FOUR
Sir Percy once again had grasped that single hair of Chance
And disguised as the landlord, ankles bare in ragged pants,
Had crept right through the forest, and snuck into the inn,
In time to save his dearest love,
Marguerite, his one dear love,
Had rescued his dear love, and soundly whipped that Chauvelin
He beat that villain Chauvelin, thrashed him like a dog,
Until, in pain, the villain dropped to the floor, like a log
Sir Percy smiled at that wretch, who at his feet now laid;
That beating he took at Calais,
The indignity of Calais!
The score to settle from Calais had finally been repaid
He freed her; 'pon that noble chest she lay her golden head
Tenderly, he gently kissed her hands, worn so sore and red
"Dear one," said he, "I don't deserve to have you as my wife;
Whilst I was off saving others,
Whilst I thought only of others,
Dearest one, for my sake, you nearly gave your life!"
* * * * * *
In London, all clamor to hear the stories of that brave
Scarlet Pimpernel, whose daring acts did save
Many a poor and wretched soul about to lose his life
But few knew of the price he paid-
That horrid price he nearly paid!
The price he almost gave to save those lives - that of his wife!
There is but very little more to tell you of this tale,
Except that at a party held by the Prince of Wales,
Whilst men raised glasses, and the ladies, in compassion wept,
Upon hearing of the Pimpernel,
That gallant Scarlet Pimpernel!
At the word 'Pimpernel', Sir Percy yawned and – sink me! – slept!
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight along the Thames' shore,
The Pimpernel comes riding—
Riding—riding—
The Scarlet Pimpernel comes riding, up to Blakeney Manor's door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the lanthorn-lit drive,
And grooms spring up to aid their master as soon as he arrives
He opens his arms to the one who always comes to meet him there –
The oh so beautiful Lady Blakeney
His beloved wife, Marguerite Blakeney,
And with a contented sigh, plants many a kiss on her golden hair.