Chapter-By-Chapter Commentary of The Scarlet Pimpernel - Part 4
(Here is Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.)
Chapter IV
The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel
Everybody's sitting happily at the well-laid table in the coffee room of the Fisherman's Rest-everyone, that is, except one of the following possible people.
a. Severus Snape
b. Eeyore
c. the Lone Ranger
d. those domino-playing guys who are NOT French
If you have guessed d, congratulations! You recognize the obvious.
One of these men (I'll call him Monsieur 1) tells the other (Monsieur 2) that all is safe. Monsieur 2 begins admiring the underside of one of worthy Mr. Jellyband's tables, aka, hiding. Then Monsieur 1 loudly announces his departure.
After he leaves, everyone else relaxes. Then they toast King George. As in drinking to King George's health. Not literally toasting him. Sir Andrew tacks on the captive King Louis as well. And, no, my fellow silly children that have been raised on Disney, he does not mean the King Louie of the Jungle Book.
Then my Lord Tony adds the Comte de Tournay de Basserive to the toast. Wow, what a name! Spell check is going bazannas over here. (JFYI, beserk + bananas = bazannas.)
And then the poor Comtesse starts angsting about her husband, and whether even the Scarlet Pimpernel will be able to bring him safely across the Channel. All her previous suffering and anxiety culminates into a breakdown of gentle weeping. Suzanne, good little girl, tries to comfort her.
My Lord Tony and my Sir Andrew make fools of themselves trying to not show how much the Comtesse's grief moves them. The Englishman, according to this book, “has always felt somewhat ashamed of his own emotion and of his own sympathy.”
Suzanne expresses the belief that, no matter what, Ffoulkes will bring her daddy safe to her. This amuses her mother right out of her tears and brightens them all up.
Sir Andrew makes yet another mention of his life having been at Suzanne's service, but he shrugs off all the credit upon the Pimpernel.
Orczy narrates that he speaks so passionately about his leader, Suzanne stares at him in “undisguised wonder.” Wait--hasn't she been doing just that since she first appeared last chapter? Almost non-stop? Oh, well, I guess I'll just have to assume she just intensified the staring and made the wonder even less disguised.
The Comtesse demands to meet the Pimpernel and thank him personally. She even speaks of all her family throwing themselves at his feet, which must be a pretty big thing for an aristocratic aristo with aristocratic features and hands and aristocratic clothes that will not like the feel of an plebeian floor.
My Lord Tony says that can't happen, as the Pimpernel will not show himself to anyone but those of his league, and they are sworn to secrecy. Suzanne laughs at such a funny name for such a daring man, and asks my Sir Andrew what a Pimpernel is.
At this point, I half expected Ffoulkes to become animated with fervent fury and protest that his master's name is NOT FUNNY! And also growl and bark, to further impress the readers with his dog-like devotion.
Instead, his face lights up like Joshua talking about a deliverer in the old Ten Commandments movie we watch every spring, and Ffoulkes explains it's just a flower name which his leader chose as an alias. Since we, the readers, already know this, I don't know why Orczy is bringing this up again; perhaps she's wanting to clue in those who are too lazy to remember details from a few chapters back.
The Vicomte mentions he's heard of the Pimpernel himself, and of how he leaves little notes for the Public Prosecutor, Foucquier-Tinville. Wait, how come the Vicomte knows about the Pimpernel, and Suzanne doesn't? Don't girls like talking about this dashing, daring man even more than the men do? Oh, well, I must be wrong. What do I know? I'm just the reader.
The Vicomte asks if Foucquier-Tinville will get a note telling him of their escape, and Dewhurst assures him he will.
Suzanne says she's heard of how the sight of the flower-embellished notepaper is “the only thing that frightens him.” Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. She knows about the notes with red flowers on them, but she doesn't know about the Pimpernel? Why is that? But Orczy doesn't elaborate. I'm left to assume Suzanne never really inquires into matters to find out the whole story--at least, not until her Sir Ffoulkes is around.
The Comtesse says she doesn't understand why the Pimpernel and his men risk so much to save a few Frenchies across the Channel.
My Lord Tony merrily says it's all for sport. Englishmen live and breathe for sports. As of now, the best sport involves smuggling innocents to England under the nose of evil. But the Comtesse is sure they have a motive far higher and purer than mundane sports. I just love Dewhurst's response.
“Faith, Madame, I would like you to find it then: as for me, I vow, I love the game, for this is the finest sport I have yet encountered--Hair-breadth escapes . . . the devil's own risks!-Tally ho!-and away we go!”
Is that British or what?
The Comtesse doesn't believe him for a second. She has a flashback about their escape, including a vision of that horrible hag with her whipful of scalps. Arg! I thought we'd done with the spooky hags! Stop it with the scary knitting ladies! Even the fake ones! Please! I beg you!
Excuse me as I calm myself down by thinking of Grandmamma in the Addams Family.
Suzanne gazes some more at Sir Andrew, sure that he, at least, has been risking his life for sheer loftiness of mind and sympathy. She asks him how many men are in the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
Evidently, the Pimpernel never made him swear not to spill the beans about their numbers, for Sir Andrew quickly says they are twenty, the Pimpernel included.
The Comtesse hopes God will protect them all, especially against treachery.
The Vicomte makes a remark that the women have been even nastier to aristos than the men. Aw, poor little Vicomte. Did those mean little girls snub you?
We never learn what prompted the Vicomte to say this, because Orczy's only purpose behind it was to prompt the Comtesse to introduce the heroine of the story.
And it's not a very flattering introduction, folks. Hauteur and scorn sweeps over her features as she deigns to utter the name of Marguerite St. Just, whose denouncement of the Marquis de St. Cyr and his family lead to their deaths under the blade of the guillotine.
My Lord Tony and my Sir Andrew suddenly become very uncomfortable. They try to make sure they are on the same page as the Comtesse. The Comtesse says Marguerite St. Just was an actress who married an Englishman. Suzanne says she was an old schoolmate she had been very fond of.
The Englishmen can only conclude she is the same Lady Blakeney that they know, the same Lady Blakeney who is due to meet them with her husband within the hour. Oooo . . . my impeding conflict sense is tingling . . .
Once more, Sir Andrew tries to cast doubt on the deaths of the St. Cyr's really being Marguerite Blakeney née St. Just. The Comtesse cuts him off with the coolness of a Jellyband and says there can be no doubt. Marguerite and her brother were all for the aristocrat-usurping Republic, and rumors had circulated that the St. Justs and the St. Cyrs had a feud.
The Comtesse will never forgive Marguerite for her hand in the death of fellows aristos--St. Cyr being her own cousin, no less. She hopes she never needs to see Marguerite St. Just.
My Lord Antony whispers to my good man Jellyband, “At what time do you expect Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney?”
Jellyband says they'll be here any minute.
Then the Blakeneys arrive.
Chapter IV
The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel
Everybody's sitting happily at the well-laid table in the coffee room of the Fisherman's Rest-everyone, that is, except one of the following possible people.
a. Severus Snape
b. Eeyore
c. the Lone Ranger
d. those domino-playing guys who are NOT French
If you have guessed d, congratulations! You recognize the obvious.
One of these men (I'll call him Monsieur 1) tells the other (Monsieur 2) that all is safe. Monsieur 2 begins admiring the underside of one of worthy Mr. Jellyband's tables, aka, hiding. Then Monsieur 1 loudly announces his departure.
After he leaves, everyone else relaxes. Then they toast King George. As in drinking to King George's health. Not literally toasting him. Sir Andrew tacks on the captive King Louis as well. And, no, my fellow silly children that have been raised on Disney, he does not mean the King Louie of the Jungle Book.
Then my Lord Tony adds the Comte de Tournay de Basserive to the toast. Wow, what a name! Spell check is going bazannas over here. (JFYI, beserk + bananas = bazannas.)
And then the poor Comtesse starts angsting about her husband, and whether even the Scarlet Pimpernel will be able to bring him safely across the Channel. All her previous suffering and anxiety culminates into a breakdown of gentle weeping. Suzanne, good little girl, tries to comfort her.
My Lord Tony and my Sir Andrew make fools of themselves trying to not show how much the Comtesse's grief moves them. The Englishman, according to this book, “has always felt somewhat ashamed of his own emotion and of his own sympathy.”
Suzanne expresses the belief that, no matter what, Ffoulkes will bring her daddy safe to her. This amuses her mother right out of her tears and brightens them all up.
Sir Andrew makes yet another mention of his life having been at Suzanne's service, but he shrugs off all the credit upon the Pimpernel.
Orczy narrates that he speaks so passionately about his leader, Suzanne stares at him in “undisguised wonder.” Wait--hasn't she been doing just that since she first appeared last chapter? Almost non-stop? Oh, well, I guess I'll just have to assume she just intensified the staring and made the wonder even less disguised.
The Comtesse demands to meet the Pimpernel and thank him personally. She even speaks of all her family throwing themselves at his feet, which must be a pretty big thing for an aristocratic aristo with aristocratic features and hands and aristocratic clothes that will not like the feel of an plebeian floor.
My Lord Tony says that can't happen, as the Pimpernel will not show himself to anyone but those of his league, and they are sworn to secrecy. Suzanne laughs at such a funny name for such a daring man, and asks my Sir Andrew what a Pimpernel is.
At this point, I half expected Ffoulkes to become animated with fervent fury and protest that his master's name is NOT FUNNY! And also growl and bark, to further impress the readers with his dog-like devotion.
Instead, his face lights up like Joshua talking about a deliverer in the old Ten Commandments movie we watch every spring, and Ffoulkes explains it's just a flower name which his leader chose as an alias. Since we, the readers, already know this, I don't know why Orczy is bringing this up again; perhaps she's wanting to clue in those who are too lazy to remember details from a few chapters back.
The Vicomte mentions he's heard of the Pimpernel himself, and of how he leaves little notes for the Public Prosecutor, Foucquier-Tinville. Wait, how come the Vicomte knows about the Pimpernel, and Suzanne doesn't? Don't girls like talking about this dashing, daring man even more than the men do? Oh, well, I must be wrong. What do I know? I'm just the reader.
The Vicomte asks if Foucquier-Tinville will get a note telling him of their escape, and Dewhurst assures him he will.
Suzanne says she's heard of how the sight of the flower-embellished notepaper is “the only thing that frightens him.” Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. She knows about the notes with red flowers on them, but she doesn't know about the Pimpernel? Why is that? But Orczy doesn't elaborate. I'm left to assume Suzanne never really inquires into matters to find out the whole story--at least, not until her Sir Ffoulkes is around.
The Comtesse says she doesn't understand why the Pimpernel and his men risk so much to save a few Frenchies across the Channel.
My Lord Tony merrily says it's all for sport. Englishmen live and breathe for sports. As of now, the best sport involves smuggling innocents to England under the nose of evil. But the Comtesse is sure they have a motive far higher and purer than mundane sports. I just love Dewhurst's response.
“Faith, Madame, I would like you to find it then: as for me, I vow, I love the game, for this is the finest sport I have yet encountered--Hair-breadth escapes . . . the devil's own risks!-Tally ho!-and away we go!”
Is that British or what?
The Comtesse doesn't believe him for a second. She has a flashback about their escape, including a vision of that horrible hag with her whipful of scalps. Arg! I thought we'd done with the spooky hags! Stop it with the scary knitting ladies! Even the fake ones! Please! I beg you!
Excuse me as I calm myself down by thinking of Grandmamma in the Addams Family.
Suzanne gazes some more at Sir Andrew, sure that he, at least, has been risking his life for sheer loftiness of mind and sympathy. She asks him how many men are in the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
Evidently, the Pimpernel never made him swear not to spill the beans about their numbers, for Sir Andrew quickly says they are twenty, the Pimpernel included.
The Comtesse hopes God will protect them all, especially against treachery.
The Vicomte makes a remark that the women have been even nastier to aristos than the men. Aw, poor little Vicomte. Did those mean little girls snub you?
We never learn what prompted the Vicomte to say this, because Orczy's only purpose behind it was to prompt the Comtesse to introduce the heroine of the story.
And it's not a very flattering introduction, folks. Hauteur and scorn sweeps over her features as she deigns to utter the name of Marguerite St. Just, whose denouncement of the Marquis de St. Cyr and his family lead to their deaths under the blade of the guillotine.
My Lord Tony and my Sir Andrew suddenly become very uncomfortable. They try to make sure they are on the same page as the Comtesse. The Comtesse says Marguerite St. Just was an actress who married an Englishman. Suzanne says she was an old schoolmate she had been very fond of.
The Englishmen can only conclude she is the same Lady Blakeney that they know, the same Lady Blakeney who is due to meet them with her husband within the hour. Oooo . . . my impeding conflict sense is tingling . . .
Once more, Sir Andrew tries to cast doubt on the deaths of the St. Cyr's really being Marguerite Blakeney née St. Just. The Comtesse cuts him off with the coolness of a Jellyband and says there can be no doubt. Marguerite and her brother were all for the aristocrat-usurping Republic, and rumors had circulated that the St. Justs and the St. Cyrs had a feud.
The Comtesse will never forgive Marguerite for her hand in the death of fellows aristos--St. Cyr being her own cousin, no less. She hopes she never needs to see Marguerite St. Just.
My Lord Antony whispers to my good man Jellyband, “At what time do you expect Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney?”
Jellyband says they'll be here any minute.
Then the Blakeneys arrive.