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though the Republic had abolished God, it had not quite succeeded in killing the fear of the supernatural in the hearts of the people.
Everyone was awe-struck and silent, filled with horror for the loathsome malady, the one thing which still had the power to arouse terror and disgust in these savage, brutalised creatures.
“Sacré tonnerre,”
I’ve ’eard it said that them frog-eaters can’t even speak the King’s English, so, of course, if any of ’em tried to speak their God-forsaken lingo to me, why, I should spot them directly, see!—
but in every century, and ever
since England has been what it is, an Englishman has always felt somewhat ashamed of his own emotion and of his own sympathy.
“The Scarlet Pimpernel, Mademoiselle,” he said at last “is the name of a humble English wayside flower; but it is also the name chosen to hide the identity of the best and bravest man in all the world, so that he may better succeed in accomplishing the noble task he has set himself to do.”
“Money and titles may be hereditary,” she would say, “but brains are not,”
You mi’lor’, are our protector. If I have done wrong, I withdraw myself.”
Only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, whose every thought since he had met Suzanne de Tournay seemed keener, more gentle, more innately sympathetic, noted the curious look of intense longing, of deep and hopeless passion, with which the inane and flippant Sir Percy followed the retreating figure of his brilliant wife.
new Utopia, of which a few men dreamed, but which none had the power to establish.
and the very fact that Percy was slow and stupid was an attraction for me, as I thought he would love me all the more. A clever man would naturally have other interests, an ambitious man other hopes . . . I thought that a fool would worship, and think of nothing else. And I was ready to respond, Armand; I would have allowed myself to be worshipped, and given infinite tenderness in return . . .”
“Idyllic follies never last, my little Chauvelin . . . They come upon us like the measles . . . and are as easily cured.”
Thus human beings judge of one
another, with but little reason, and no charity.
“Is it possible that love can die?” she said with sudden, unreasoning vehemence. “Methought that the passion which you once felt for me would outlast the span of human life. Is there nothing left of that love, Percy . . . which might help you . . . to bridge over that sad estrangement?”
Do you wish to see me once more a love-sick suppliant at your feet, so that you might again have the pleasure of kicking me aside, like a troublesome lap-dog?”
Only between these two hearts there lay a strong, impassable barrier, built up of pride on both sides, which neither of them cared to be the first to demolish.
Had she but turned back then, and looked out once more on to the rose-lit garden, she would have seen
a strong man, overwhelmed with his own passion and his own despair.
She loved him still. And now that she looked back upon the last few months of misunderstandings and of loneliness, she realised that she had never ceased to love him; that deep down in her heart she had always vaguely felt that his foolish inanities, his empty laugh, his lazy nonchalance were nothing but a mask; that the real man, strong, passionate, wilful, was there still—the man she had loved, whose intensity had fascinated her, whose personality attracted her, since she always felt that behind his apparently slow wits there was a certain something, which he kept hidden from all the world,
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Was it love she felt for him now that she realised that he still loved her, but that he would not become her slave, her passionate, ardent lover once again?
pride had sealed her mind against a better understanding of her own heart.
she, too, had worn a mask in assuming a contempt for him, whilst, as a matter of fact, she completely misunderstood him.
By her own blindness she had sinned; now she must repay,
The weariest nights, the longest days, sooner or later must perforce come to an end.
Oh! that fiend in human shape,
