The scarlet pimpernel how many pages

Oh whoa is Marguerite! She has a choice to make! The thing I loved most about this book were the characters. Okay just one character. It was so cool to see a hero win with wit and charm while wearing the latest fashions. Overall , the writing was witty and the characters were charming but the writing got a little repetitive at times. Content Rating : None. This post contains affiliate links and I receive a small percentage of sales made through these links.

Baroness Orczy's sequels to the novel were less successful. She was also an artist, and her works were exhibited at the Royal Academy, London. Her first venture into fiction was with crime stories. Then the day of retribution came. Cyr and his kind had found their masters, in those same plebeians whom they had despised. Armand and Marguerite, both intellectual, thinking beings, adopted with the enthusiasm of their years the Utopian doctrines of the Revolution, while the Marquis de St.

Cyr and his family fought inch by inch for the retention of those privileges which had placed them socially above their fellow-men. Cyr bore fruit within twenty-four hours. He was arrested. His papers were searched: letters from the Austrian Emperor, promising to send troops against the Paris populace, were found in his desk. He was arraigned for treason against the nation, and sent to the guillotine, whilst his family, his wife and his sons, shared this awful fate.

Marguerite, horrified at the terrible consequences of her own thoughtlessness, was powerless to save the Marquis: her own coterie, the leaders of the revolutionary movement, all proclaimed her as a heroine: and when she married Sir Percy Blakeney, she did not perhaps altogether realise how severely he would look upon the sin, which she had so inadvertently committed, and which still lay heavily upon her soul.

She made full confession of it to her husband, trusting to his blind love for her, her boundless power over him, to soon make him forget what might have sounded unpleasant to an English ear. Certainly at the moment he seemed to take it very quietly; hardly, in fact, did he appear to understand the meaning of all she said; but what was more certain still, was that never after that could she detect the slightest sign of that love, which she once believed had been wholly hers.

Now they had drifted quite apart, and Sir Percy seemed to have laid aside his love for her, as he would an ill-fitting glove. She tried to rouse him by sharpening her ready wit against his dull intellect; endeavoured to excite his jealousy, if she could not rouse his love; tried to goad him to self-assertion, but all in vain.

The stranger paused when he saw Marguerite coming quickly towards him, and just as she was about to slip past him, he said very quietly:. Marguerite uttered a little cry of astonishment, at thus hearing her own familiar maiden name uttered so close to her. She looked up at the stranger, and this time, with a cry of unfeigned pleasure, she put out both her hands effusively towards him.

Marguerite said nothing for a moment or two, as she surveyed with obvious delight the not very prepossessing little figure before her. Chauvelin was then nearer forty than thirty—a clever, shrewd-looking personality, with a curious fox-like expression in the deep, sunken eyes. He was the same stranger who an hour or two previously had joined Mr. Jellyband in a friendly glass of wine. No doubt poor Marguerite St. Just, lonely in the midst of her grandeur, and of her starchy friends, was happy to see a face that brought back memories of that happy time in Paris, when she reigned—a queen—over the intellectual coterie of the Rue de Richelieu.

She did not notice the sarcastic little smile, however, that hovered round the thin lips of Chauvelin. The evening air was lovely after the storm, and she had found a friend who exhaled the breath of Paris, who knew Armand well, who could talk of all the merry, brilliant friends whom she had left behind. Chauvelin stood beside her, his shrewd, pale, yellow eyes fixed on the pretty face, which looked so sweet and childlike in this soft English summer twilight.

Now, I thought that a pretty woman would have found English country life peculiarly attractive. They come upon us like the measles. Chauvelin took another pinch of snuff: he seemed very much addicted to that pernicious habit, so prevalent in those days; perhaps, too, he found the taking of snuff a convenient veil for disguising the quick, shrewd glances with which he strove to read the very souls of those with whom he came in contact. The prescription I would offer, fair lady, is called by a very plebeian name: Work!

Chauvelin looked at Marguerite long and scrutinisingly. It seemed as if those keen, pale eyes of his were reading every one of her thoughts. They were alone together; the evening air was quite still, and their soft whispers were drowned in the noise which came from the coffee-room. Still, Chauvelin took a step or two from under the porch, looked quickly and keenly all round him, then, seeing that indeed no one was within earshot, he once more came back close to Marguerite.

Indeed I do not know if I would render France a small service—at any rate, it depends upon the kind of service she—or you—want. Chauvelin had not moved while she prattled merrily along; he did not even attempt to stop her when her musical voice and her childlike laugh went echoing through the still evening air. But he remained serious and earnest whilst she laughed, and his voice, clear, incisive, and hard, was not raised above his breath as he said,—.

France has many bitter enemies these days. Pitt in London to-morrow. One of my duties here is to find out all about this League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, which has become a standing menace to France, since it is pledged to help our cursed aristocrats—traitors to their country, and enemies of the people—to escape from the just punishment which they deserve.

They are ready to join issue with any enemy bold enough to attack France. Their escape in each instance was planned, organised and effected by this society of young English jackanapes, headed by a man whose brain seems as resourceful as his identity is mysterious.

All the most strenuous efforts on the part of my spies have failed to discover who he is; whilst the others are the hands, he is the head, who beneath this strange anonymity calmly works at the destruction of France.

I mean to strike at that head, and for this I want your help—through him afterwards I can reach the rest of the gang: he is a young buck in English society, of that I feel sure. Find that man for me, citoyenne! She had told him before that this mysterious hero of romance was the talk of the smart set to which she belonged; already, before this, her heart and her imagination had been stirred by the thought of the brave man, who, unknown to fame, had rescued hundreds of lives from a terrible, often an unmerciful fate.

She had but little real sympathy with those haughty French aristocrats, insolent in their pride of caste, of whom the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive was so typical an example; but, republican and liberal-minded though she was from principle, she hated and loathed the methods which the young Republic had chosen for establishing itself.

She had not been in Paris for some months; the horrors and bloodshed of the Reign of Terror, culminating in the September massacres, had only come across the Channel to her as a faint echo. Robespierre, Danton, Marat, she had not known in their new guise of bloody justiciaries, merciless wielders of the guillotine. Her very soul recoiled in horror from these excesses, to which she feared her brother Armand—moderate republican as he was—might become one day the holocaust. Then, when first she heard of this band of young English enthusiasts, who, for sheer love of their fellow-men, dragged women and children, old and young men, from a horrible death, her heart had glowed with pride for them, and now, as Chauvelin spoke, her very soul went out to the gallant and mysterious leader of the reckless little band, who risked his life daily, who gave it freely and without ostentation, for the sake of humanity.

The mysterious hero had vanished, and, not twenty yards away from her, a man was drinking and laughing, to whom she had sworn faith and loyalty. Where in the world am I to look for him? Chauvelin had taken sure aim when he shot this tiny shaft. You have other means at your disposal; you must use them, my friend. And without another look at Chauvelin, Marguerite Blakeney turned her back on him and walked straight into the inn.

She threw open the coffee-room door and disappeared from his view, but he remained under the porch for a moment or two, taking a pinch of snuff. He had received a rebuke and a snub, but his shrewd, fox-like face looked neither abashed nor disappointed; on the contrary, a curious smile, half sarcastic and wholly satisfied, played around the corners of his thin lips. The magnificent coach, drawn by four of the finest thoroughbreds in England, had driven off along the London road, with Sir Percy Blakeney on the box, holding the reins in his slender feminine hands, and beside him Lady Blakeney wrapped in costly furs.

Marguerite had hailed the notion of it with delight. Sir Percy was an enthusiastic whip; his four thoroughbreds, which had been sent down to Dover a couple of days before, were just sufficiently fresh and restive to add zest to the expedition, and Marguerite revelled in anticipation of the few hours of solitude, with the soft night breeze fanning her cheeks, her thoughts wandering, whither away? She knew from old experience that Sir Percy would speak little, if at all: he had often driven her on his beautiful coach for hours at night, from point to point, without making more than one or two casual remarks upon the weather or the state of the roads.

He was very fond of driving by night, and she had very quickly adopted his fancy: as she sat next to him hour after hour, admiring the dexterous, certain way in which he handled the reins, she often wondered what went on in that slow-going head of his.

He never told her, and she had never cared to ask. Jellyband was going the round, putting out the lights. His bar customers had all gone, but upstairs in the snug little bedrooms, Mr. Jellyband had quite a few important guests: the Comtesse de Tournay, with Suzanne, and the Vicomte, and there were two more bedrooms ready for Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst, if the two young men should elect to honour the ancient hostelry and stay the night.

For the moment these two young gallants were comfortably installed in the coffee-room, before the huge log-fire, which, in spite of the mildness of the evening, had been allowed to burn merrily. Jellyband did as he was bid—he turned out the quaint old lamp that hung from the raftered ceiling and blew out all the candles.

Jellyband went off to fetch the wine. The room now was quite dark, save for the circle of ruddy and fitful light formed by the brightly blazing logs in the hearth. The two young men listened, whilst the heavy tread of Mr. Jellyband was heard echoing along the passage and staircase. Sir Andrew had been dreaming evidently, gazing into the fire, and seeing therein, no doubt, a pretty, piquant face, with large brown eyes and a wealth of dark curls round a childish forehead.

You have no idea, Tony. The two young men drew their chairs closer together, and instinctively, though they were alone, their voices sank to a whisper.

He crossed over to England two days before we did. Suzanne, and the Vicomte lay concealed among the turnips and cabbages. They, themselves, of course, never suspected who their driver was. His cheek is preposterous, I vow! Lord Antony, whose vocabulary was more limited than that of his friend, could only find an oath or two with which to show his admiration for his leader. Let me see! It will be rare sport to get him out of France, and you will have a narrow escape, if you get through at all.

Just has actually gone to meet him—of course, no one suspects St. Just as yet; but after that. I hope I may yet have orders to be of the party. It appears that the Republican Government have sent an accredited agent over to England, a man named Chauvelin, who is said to be terribly bitter against our league, and determined to discover the identity of our leader, so that he may have him kidnapped, the next time he attempts to set foot in France.

This Chauvelin has brought a whole army of spies with him, and until the chief has sampled the lot, he thinks we should meet as seldom as possible on the business of the league, and on no account should talk to each other in public places for a time.

When he wants to speak to us, he will contrive to let us know. The two young men were both bending over the fire, for the blaze had died down, and only a red glow from the dying embers cast a lurid light on a narrow semicircle in front of the hearth. The rest of the room lay buried in complete gloom; Sir Andrew had taken a pocket-book from his pocket, and drawn therefrom a paper, which he unfolded, and together they tried to read it by the dim red firelight. So intent were they upon this, so wrapt up in the cause, the business they had so much at heart, so precious was this document which came from the very hand of their adored leader, that they had eyes and ears only for that.

They lost count of the sounds around them, of the dropping of crisp ash from the grate, of the monotonous ticking of the clock, of the soft, almost imperceptible rustle of something on the floor close beside them.

A figure had emerged from under one of the benches; with snake-like, noiseless movements it crept closer and closer to the two young men, not breathing, only gliding along the floor, in the inky blackness of the room. He was about to replace the letter-case into his pocket, when a tiny slip of paper fluttered from it and fell on to the floor.

Lord Antony stooped and picked it up. It certainly did not seem to be with the other paper. Both stooped to try and decipher this last tiny scrap of paper on which a few words had been hastily scrawled, when suddenly a slight noise attracted their attention, which seemed to come from the passage beyond. Lord Antony crossed the room towards the door, which he threw open quickly and suddenly; at that very moment he received a stunning blow between the eyes, which threw him back violently into the room.

Simultaneously the crouching, snake-like figure in the gloom had jumped up and hurled itself from behind upon the unsuspecting Sir Andrew, felling him to the ground. All this occurred within the short space of two or three seconds, and before either Lord Antony or Sir Andrew had time or chance to utter a cry or to make the faintest struggle.

They were each seized by two men, a muffler was quickly tied round the mouth of each, and they were pinioned to one another back to back, their arms, hands, and legs securely fastened. One man had in the meanwhile quietly shut the door; he wore a mask and now stood motionless while the others completed their work. This was promptly and quietly done. The four men lifted Sir Andrew and Lord Antony from the ground, and as quietly, as noiselessly as they had come, they bore the two pinioned young gallants out of the inn and along the Dover Road into the gloom beyond.

In the coffee-room the masked leader of this daring attempt was quickly glancing through the stolen papers. Just, seemed to give him strange satisfaction. It was one of the gala nights at Covent Garden Theatre, the first of the autumn season in this memorable year of grace The house was packed, both in the smart orchestra boxes and the pit, as well as in the more plebeian balconies and galleries above.

Selina Storace had been duly applauded after her grand aria by her numerous admirers; Benjamin Incledon, the acknowledged favourite of the ladies, had received special gracious recognition from the royal box; and now the curtain came down after the glorious finale to the second act, and the audience, which had hung spell-bound on the magic strains of the great maestro, seemed collectively to breathe a long sigh of satisfaction, previous to letting loose its hundreds of waggish and frivolous tongues.

In the smart orchestra boxes many well-known faces were to be seen. Lord Grenville—Foreign Secretary of State—paid him marked, though frigid deference. On these faces sorrow and care were deeply writ; the women especially paid but little heed, either to the music or to the brilliant audience; no doubt their thoughts were far away with husband, brother, son maybe, still in peril, or lately succumbed to a cruel fate.

Behind her sat little Suzanne and the Vicomte, both silent and somewhat shy among so many strangers. Evidently the one face she wished to see was not there, for she settled herself down quietly behind her mother, listened apathetically to the music, and took no further interest in the audience itself.

Here is Madame la Comtesse de Tournay positively dying to hear the latest news from France. The massacres continue; Paris literally reeks with blood; and the guillotine claims a hundred victims a day. Pale and tearful, the Comtesse was leaning back in her chair, listening horror-struck to this brief and graphic account of what went on in her own misguided country. It is terrible for me to be sitting here, in a theatre, all safe and in peace, whilst he is in such peril.

The Comtesse smiled through her tears at the vehemence of her friend. Lady Portarles, whose voice and manner would not have misfitted a jockey, had a heart of gold, and hid the most genuine sympathy and most gentle kindliness, beneath the somewhat coarse manners affected by some ladies at that time. I saw Lord Hastings yesterday. What the league have sworn, that they surely will accomplish.

Chauvelin is the accredited agent of his Government. My Lord Grenville, you have the gift of the gab, will you please explain to Madame la Comtesse that she is acting like a fool.

Lady Blakeney may or may not be in sympathy with those ruffians in France; she may or may not have had anything to do with the arrest and condemnation of St. But what Lord Grenville thought of this matter, or to what reflections this homely tirade of Lady Portarles led the Comtesse de Tournay, remained unspoken, for the curtain had just risen on the third act of Orpheus , and admonishments to silence came from every part of the house. Lord Grenville took a hasty farewell of the ladies and slipped back into his box, where M.

Always dressed in the very latest vagary of fashion, Marguerite alone among the ladies that night had discarded the cross-over fichu and broad-lapelled over-dress, which had been in fashion for the last two or three years. She wore the short-waisted classical-shaped gown, which so soon was to become the approved mode in every country in Europe. It suited her graceful, regal figure to perfection, composed as it was of shimmering stuff which seemed a mass of rich gold embroidery.

As she entered, she leant for a moment out of the box, taking stock of all those present whom she knew. Many bowed to her as she did so, and from the royal box there came also a quick and gracious salute. Chauvelin watched her intently all through the commencement of the third act, as she sat enthralled with the music, her exquisite little hand toying with a small jewelled fan, her regal head, her throat, arms and neck covered with magnificent diamonds and rare gems, the gift of the adoring husband who sprawled leisurely by her side.

Marguerite was passionately fond of music. Orpheus charmed her to-night. The very joy of living was writ plainly upon the sweet young face, it sparkled out of the merry blue eyes and lit up the smile that lurked around the lips.

Two days ago the Day Dream had returned from Calais, bringing her news that her idolised brother had safely landed, that he thought of her, and would be prudent for her sake. He had stayed beside her in the box just as long as convention demanded, making way for His Royal Highness, and for the host of admirers who in a continued procession came to pay homage to the queen of fashion. Sir Percy had strolled away, to talk to more congenial friends probably.

So are you, probably. Marguerite instinctively shivered. Chauvelin had not raised his voice above a whisper; he was now quietly taking a pinch of snuff, yet there was something in his attitude, something in those pale, foxy eyes, which seemed to freeze the blood in her veins, as would the sight of some deadly hitherto unguessed peril. He paused a moment, like a cat which sees a mouse running heedlessly by, ready to spring, yet waiting with that feline sense of enjoyment of mischief about to be done.

Then he said quietly—. Not a muscle moved in the beautiful face before him. He could only see it in profile, for Marguerite seemed to be watching the stage intently, but Chauvelin was a keen observer; he noticed the sudden rigidity of the eyes, the hardening of the mouth, the sharp, almost paralysed tension of the beautiful, graceful figure. And with her hand she began to beat time nervously against the cushion of the box. Chauvelin did not move from his seat; he quietly watched that tiny nervous hand, the only indication that his shaft had indeed struck home.

May I? The question was unnecessary. He felt, though Marguerite still held her head steadily averted from him, that her every nerve was strained to hear what he had to say.

France needed it, and I thought I could rely on you, but you gave me your answer. Since then the exigencies of my own affairs and your own social duties have kept us apart. The day on which I had the honour of meeting you at Dover, and less than an hour after I had your final answer, I obtained possession of some papers, which revealed another of those subtle schemes for the escape of a batch of French aristocrats—that traitor de Tournay amongst others—all organised by that arch-meddler, the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Some of the threads, too, of this mysterious organisation have fallen into my hands, but not all, and I want you—nay! Marguerite seemed to have listened to him with marked impatience; she now shrugged her shoulders and said gaily—.

Have I not already told you that I care nought about your schemes or about the Scarlet Pimpernel. And had you not spoken about my brother. When the two young men were alone, my spies forced their way into the coffee-room of the inn, gagged and pinioned the two gallants, seized their papers, and brought them to me.

In a moment she had guessed the danger. Had Armand been imprudent? The very thought struck her with nameless terror. Still she would not let this man see that she feared; she laughed gaily and lightly. Your men might have been caught in the act! They are children of France, and have been trained by your humble servant. Had they been caught they would have gone to jail, or even to the gallows, without a word of protest or indiscretion; at any rate it was well worth the risk.

A crowded inn is safer for these little operations than you think, and my men have experience. Among the papers there was a letter to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, written by your brother, St.

The blow had been struck at last. All along, Marguerite had been expecting it; she would not show fear, she was determined to seem unconcerned, flippant even. She wished, when the shock came, to be prepared for it, to have all her wits about her—those wits which had been nicknamed the keenest in Europe.

Even now she did not flinch. She knew that Chauvelin had spoken the truth; the man was too earnest, too blindly devoted to the misguided cause he had at heart, too proud of his countrymen, of those makers of revolutions, to stoop to low, purposeless falsehoods.

Marguerite knew that as if she had seen the letter with her own eyes; and Chauvelin would hold that letter for purposes of his own, until it suited him to destroy it or to make use of it against Armand.

All that she knew, and yet she continued to laugh more gaily, more loudly than she had done before. Armand in league with that enigmatic Scarlet Pimpernel! Armand busy helping those French aristocrats whom he despises! Faith, the tale does infinite credit to your imagination! Just is compromised beyond the slightest hope of pardon. Inside the orchestra box all was silent for a moment or two. Marguerite sat, straight upright, rigid and inert, trying to think, trying to face the situation, to realise what had best be done.

In the house Storace had finished the aria , and was even now bowing in her classic garb, but in approved eighteenth-century fashion, to the enthusiastic audience, who cheered her to the echo. It seems that my wits have become rusty by contact with this damp climate. Just by doing me a small service. Marguerite took it mechanically and stooped to read it. There were only two lines, written in a distorted, evidently disguised, handwriting; she read them half aloud—.

You have all instructions for the 2nd. If you wish to speak to me again, I shall be at G. You see, do you not? Therefore, this morning, those two young gallants found every bar and bolt open in that lonely house on the Dover Road, their jailers disappeared, and two good horses standing ready saddled and tethered in the yard.

I have not seen them yet, but I think we may safely conclude that they did not draw rein until they reached London. Now you see how simple it all is, citoyenne! Now you hold a knife at my throat, and a hostage for my obedience. You find it simple. But what do you want me to do, Chauvelin? You are going to the ball anon.

Watch for me there, citoyenne, watch and listen. You can tell me if you hear a chance word or whisper. You are absolutely beyond suspicion now. Find out who he is, and I will pledge the word of France that your brother shall be safe. Unclipped jacket has light edge wear with minor tears and chipping. Mild rubbing and marking. New - Hardcover Condition: New. Quantity: Hardback or Cased Book. Condition: New. The Scarlet Pimpernel. From Spain to U.

Tela editorial color rojo. Buen estado. Faded on the spine. Gift inscription. Published by Everyman's Library, Published by Hodder and Stoughton, London, Library edition. Yellow cloth boards are various marked and rubbed. Sunning to spine. Light foxing to half title and title. Light marking to page edges but contents clean and binding sound. Good overall. Dust Jacket Condition: Poor.

Remains of jacket pasted to spine and front panel of the book. Front edge slghtly spotted, V. Dust Jacket Condition: Very Good. Jacket is slightly edge worn and torn. The boards are slightly rubbed. Inscriptions on the block. Internally there are minor marks and previous owners inscriptions, the remaining pages are neat. Published by G. This 30th printing is from the late s; the book with only light bumping at the spine ends is very good plus.

No dust jacket, but the red cloth cover with black print is clean and bright. Language: eng. Later Edition. An old, ugly woman, approaches the western barricades, the cart will not be searched, her grandson has the plague, she says The guards, back away and the vehicle slowly passes, into the countryside, never to be seen again. Yes, The Scarlet Pimpernel, is the old woman, and some nobles are hidden, in the wagon.

Sir Percy is a master of disguise, it will save his life, numerous times. The Committee of Safety, the notorious Revolutionary French government, sends an agent to England, to find out, the identity of this Scarlet Pimpernel. Such a silly name! Citizen Chauvelin , the spy, is also an accredited official, of the bloody, French regime, and a former friend of Lady Blakeney. When her brave brother, or foolish, Armand, working for her husband, in France, to help some Aristocrats escape, is apprehended.

The "Day Dream", Sir Percy's yacht, which has been used, often, to get them, across the sea, back to freedom England , needs to sail in the opposite direction.

But now the ruthless Chauvelin, threatens to kill Armand, if Lady Blakeney, doesn't find out who is the Scarlet Pimpernel And she is in the dark, that her despised, idiot of a husband, is that person! Will Marguerite, have to choose between her husband and her beloved brother , one must die? Appearances are not always reality, as this book shows.

A man wears a mask, for the world, but inside, he is a totally different animal. View all 44 comments. Nov 11, Ahmad Sharabiani rated it really liked it Shelves: classics , adventure , fiction , romance , historical , 20th-century , hugarian-british. It was written after her stage play of the same title enjoyed a long run in London, having opened in Nottingham in The novel is set during the Reign of Terror following the start of the French Revolution.

Sir Percy Blakeney leads a double life: apparently nothing more than a wealthy fop, but in reality a formidable swordsman and a quick-thinking escape artist. The band of gentlemen who assist him are the only ones who know of his secret identity. He is known by his symbol, a simple flower, the scarlet pimpernel. Marguerite Blakeney, his French wife, does not share his secret. She is approached by the new French envoy to England, Chauvelin, with a threat to her brother's life if she does not aid in the search for the Pimpernel.

She aids him, and then discovers that the Pimpernel is also very dear to her. She sails to France to stop the envoy. View 2 comments. Apr 23, Julie rated it it was amazing Shelves: classics. I have seen a movie version on this book at some point but I had not read the book. I am so glad I did. I highly recommend it. Don't rely on the movie versions of this classic, they don't do it justice. If you have an e reader this book should be free. I ordered mine on Kindle.

There were some typos here and there, but nothing serious. View all 15 comments. The French Revolution is one of my favourite periods of history to learn about despite the morbidity and the violence and cruelty. It's shocking to be reminded of the fact that even children were guillotined. It makes you wonder why on earth people felt the need to be so barbaric and unforgiving. Baroness Orczy also introduces us to one of the most interesting characters in literature, in my opinion, Sir Percival Blakeney, Bart.

Sir Percy is a fop who is obsessed with fashion and making inane comments that amuse those around him. View all 32 comments. Jun 13, Lyn rated it liked it. Rick Flair talks about The Scarlet Pimpernel. Let me step it down a notch for you literary librarian types and let me pose a question: was the Scarlet Pimpernel the first masked superhero? All those cats had a hidden identity and they had their crime fightin side too. The Stylin', profilin', limousine riding, jet flying, kiss-stealing, wheelin' n' dealin' son of a gun!

The English at least. View all 18 comments. Sep 28, Evgeny rated it liked it Shelves: adventure. To start let me quote the book blurb.

Let me assure you, this To start let me quote the book blurb. Let me assure you, this is exactly that the book does not have. What it actually has is melodrama coming from a married couple in love with each other, but having wrong impression about their partner. So a gorgeous smart French woman married a simple in terms of intellect , but rich British nobleman. It seemed to be a match made in Heaven: she got money and he got a young beauty, but it did not work for them.

Especially after the guy realized his wife was the reason one of the French noble was sent to guillotine. I cannot even say the later had not deserve it. The book is about couple's attempts at trying to understand each other. The rest: French revolution, Scarlet Pimpernel, etc. From my side I can say I expected something different.

Had this book been billed as melodrama I would not have any complaints about it. As such it delivers fully: angst, emotional trauma, tragedy, etc. From this point of view it is good. Let me mention characters now that I talked about the story. The heroine was quite good, but ultimately useless and helpless which is to be expected considering the time the book was written.

The hero was written in such a way that made me suspend my disbelieve as I could not imagine him being a person ever existing in real life. Other characters only served to move the plot forward.

Despite everything the story was good enough for me to never think about not finishing the book. It was good and taken together with everything else my rating is 3 stars: quite good, but not outstanding in any way. Speaking about adventure books taking place during French Revolution I found Scaramouche by Rafael Sabatini to be better. View all 6 comments. Aug 18, Madeline rated it liked it. For a book about a secret team of English nobleman working to rescue French nobles from the scary revolutionists who want them dead, this is a surprisingly unexciting book.

The pace is fast, and there's plenty of spying and blackmailing and races against time, but there isn't a single fistfight, swordfight, gunfight or slapping fight in the whole book. There's sort of a chase scene at the end, but the pursued party is in a slow-moving cart and the pursuer is on foot.

There's plenty of drama and intrigue and excitement, but just one duel would have been nice. Luckily, the characters are all great. Sir Percy, in addition to being a precursor to Bruce Wayne's vigilante-disguised-as-idiot-rich-boy act, also reminded me of Lord Peter Wimsey another fan of the Badass Disguised as Fop method , which was awesome. His archenemy is Chauvelin, basically the French version of Hans Landa in Inglorious Basterds , and everybody was generally so cool that I forgot about how amazingly not scary a name like "Scarlet Pimpernel" is.

The true hero of this story, surprisingly, is not the Scarlet Pimpernel. He mostly stays in the background while people talk about him, and throughout the whole book we never really get to see him in action. Instead, we see almost everything through the eyes of Sir Percy's wife, Marguerite, who despite everything manages to be awesome.

The issue I had with Marguerite was that she's repeatedly referred to as the cleverest woman in Europe, but god damn is she stupid. Sir Percy might as well have been dancing around wearing a sign that read "Hello, I am secretly the Scarlet Pimpernel" and she wouldn't figure it out. At one point, Marguerite snoops around in Percy's study and sees the following objects: maps of the English and French coastlines on the walls, and a small ring with a scarlet pimpernel flower engraved on it.

Marguerite stares blindly at these objects and is like, "But what does it all mean? First we find out that Marguerite had a French family arrested by accident before she was married, and never told Percy about it even after she found out that she'd made a mistake. Then, when Chauvelin tells Marguerite that she has to work as a spy for him or he'll kill her brother, Marguerite doesn't tell her husband what's going on until after she sells out the Pimpernel without knowing who he is.

I mean, Jesus. Also he's in disguise for the last part of the book and it was so fucking obvious which character was actually Percy in disguise I wanted to throw the book at the wall. But fortunately, this all ends with Marguerite becoming awesome, racing against the clock to save her husband and defeat Chauvelin, and the ending between Percy and Marguerite is surprisingly sweet and very satisfying. Anyway, in conclusion: a fun espionage story, even if it's not as swashbuckling as I expected and everyone except the Pimpernel is an idiot.

I'll be looking up the movie version soon, and will likely prefer it to the book. View all 17 comments. Shelves: reads , all-time-greats , classy-classic , i-heart-it , modern-classics , favorites , ibooks , turn-of-the-century , wacky-whodunit , donning-that-detective-hat.

How I had always imagined that the classics are only for those who are born, brought up, spoon-fed in and potty-trained in English and how wrong was I to think that they are out of the reach of people like me who had only subnormal command over the English language. Among many other popular authors of the classic era, Emmuska Orczy was a name much bandied about for her magnum opus, "The Scarlet Pimpernel" , even during my school days.

I can't quite pinpoint the exact reason why I was motivated to choose this book as the first proper classic novel that I will ever read, but it sure delivered the necessary impact that made me change my course of this book journey of my life and embrace the uphill task of delving into the treasure trove of works left behind by the writers of yonder and unearth the hidden riches of the literature world that I have so far eschewed.

This story describes the many facets of the post-revolution France and the ripples that reflected off from places as far as London. The story is written in a simple, lucid style and the narrative is very straightforward and candid, that never once did I feel like I am in the middle of a momentous undertaking as this one.

Throughout the first half, we are left to our own devices to hazard a guess as to who this Scarlet Pimpernel could be and the sense of bewilderment ties you to the story to the hilt. After all, you have been hearing about this titular character for ages and you are only a few hours away from learning the true identity of this much celebrated hero of all ages. On a parallel timeline, you are treated to the boisterous and always-in-the-spotlight kind of life of Lady Blakeney aka Marguerite St.

Just who is popular equally among the intelligentsia and the fashionistas of the 18th century London and her ridiculously rich but inanely infectious laughter along with other attributes husband Sir Percy Blakeney. Her undulating affections for Sir Percy- ranging from utter hatred for his foolish ways to unconditional love for the worshipper in him- keep us riveted to the story; in an effort to help us understand which direction a witty woman's feelings for a dim-witted husband should swing towards.

This is where Lady Blakeney is unwittingly fooled into aiding in the capture of The Scarlet Pimpernel by the evil French official Monsieur Chauvelin, who used to be her close associate during her young days in France, in return for her beloved brother Armand's life. Her arduous journey in a league member Sir Andrew Ffoulkes' company to save her loved ones or die alongside them trying presents to us the typical dilemma of choosing one of two equally valuable things and that's why this novel is worthy of being hailed as one of the finest precursors to the modern day whodunits, even though the dearth of a multitude of characters made it easy for the readers to zero in on the suspect not in the usual life-taker sense, but in the unusual life saver sense.

Oh, and you wouldn't quite believe how the quirky masks and strange countenances helped our dashing hero to slip away right from under the nose of his archenemy. That this novel is a wonderful commentary on love, family, gallantry, friendship, loyalty, commitment and betrayal in the times of turmoil comes as no surprise to me.

But, if "simple" could move me so much, in this age where there is a tendency among people to complicate things, and usher in a paradigm shift in my reading habit, then I owe it to this brilliant, elegant yet plain prose. And this story makes hero-worshipping only that much better. PS: If you read my review, you'd notice that I have left a clue as to who the eponymous Scarlet Pimpernel is.

Gah, the joy of giving away to the world the secret identity of someone you know!! Human nature is century- independent, huh? This is a beautiful book, with a well-written storyline, a smooth flow, a good pace, and an interesting set of characters.

Set up in the backdrop of the Reign of Terror in France, in the aftermath of the French revolution, the author creates a story of a fictitious small league of British aristocrats led by one named "The Scarlet Pimpernel", who help smuggle the French royals and aristocrats into the safety of England away from the clutches of the vengeful Republican Government of France who see This is a beautiful book, with a well-written storyline, a smooth flow, a good pace, and an interesting set of characters.

Set up in the backdrop of the Reign of Terror in France, in the aftermath of the French revolution, the author creates a story of a fictitious small league of British aristocrats led by one named "The Scarlet Pimpernel", who help smuggle the French royals and aristocrats into the safety of England away from the clutches of the vengeful Republican Government of France who seek their lives.

Troubled and humiliated by the actions of this unknown league, the French government appoints an official to seek and destroy the daring "Scarlet Pimpernel".

Threats, dangerous bargains, and betrayals take place while the two opposing enemies try to outwit the other in a dangerous game of life and death. This is a beautifully crafted story, full of intrigue and suspense. The flow was smooth, and the story became more and more intense as the author gradually builds up suspense. Also, despite the gravity of the background in which the story is set, there was humour, too, especially in the actions of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

The writing is simple and that made it quick and easy to read. I really loved the way the story was structured and executed. There were no unnecessary details, no exaggerations.

Everything was appropriate and to the point including the emotions of the characters. Out of all, however, what captured me the most is the characters. The male protagonist is the daring Scarlet Pimpernel, who is brave, resourceful, and astute. No one would fail to love him, the dear hero. The female protagonist is a beautiful and clever woman who enters into a dangerous bargain with the enemy not realizing the consequences.

Once her mistake comes to light, she takes on herself a courageous journey to the jaws of death to rescue her loved ones from peril. The emotional trauma the author takes her through disclosing her suffering yet elaborating on her courage makes her character close and dear to the heart of the readers.

What is most interesting is that I could even like the vile enemy of the hero and heroine! Overall, it was a great read. I really enjoyed it, and would easily recommend it to those who love a fast-paced, good adventure.

If, like me, you watched the movie more times than you'd care to admit when you were growing up; or if, like me, you've read all of Georgette Heyer's Regency romances and then some, you'll love this book.

It doesn't pretend to be anything extraordinary, it doesn't even offer a social commentary on the period in which it's set - written by an aristocrat who is clearly on the side of the aristocrats, it's easy to see where her sympathies lie.