Product Description
A coniving peasant, Pierre Adet, leads a mob against the Duc de Kernogan in Nantes and assaults his daughter, Yvonne. Because of his crime, Pierre flees Nantes for many years. His father is hanged for his crime, and he is determined to seek revenge. Under the alias of Martin-Roget, he returns and, with the help of Chauvelin, plans to marry Yvonne and lure the Duc back to Nantes. However, Yvonne has eloped with Lord Antony Dewhurst. Martin-Roget still manages to persuade her father to lure Yvonne away from Lord Tony. Martin-Roget then kidnaps her and the three set off for France. Lord Tony must seek the help of The Scarlet Pimpernel to save his wife! Can Yvonne and her father escape the clutches of Pierre Adet? Will Lord Tony ever see his wife again? Does Sir Percy really spend 100 francs on silk cravats??
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from the Prologue:
Nantes, 1789
I
'Tyrant! tyrant! tyrant!'
It was Pierre who spoke, his voice was hardly raised above a murmur, but there was such an intensity of passion expressed in his face, in the fingers of his hand which closed slowly and convulsively as if they were clutching the throat of a struggling viper, there was so much hate in those muttered words, so much power, such compelling and awesome determination that an ominous silence fell upon the village lads and the men who sat with him in the low narrow room of the auberge des Trois Vertus.
Even the man in the tattered coat and threadbare breeches, who perched upon the centre table-- had been haranguing the company on the subject of the Rights of Man, paused in his peroration and looked down on Pierre half afraid of that fierce flame of passionate hate which his own words had helped to kindle.
The silence, however, had only lasted a few moments, the next Pierre was on his feet, and a cry like that of a bull in a slaughter-house escaped his throat.
'In the name of God!' he shouted, 'let us cease all that senseless talking. Haven't we planned enough and talked enough to satisfy our puling consciences? The time has come to strike, mes amis, to strike I say, to strike at those cursed aristocrats, who have made us what we are-- ignorant, wretched, downtrodden -- senseless clods to work our fingers to the bone, our bodies till they break so that they may wallow in their pleasures and their luxuries! Strike, I say!' he reiterated while his eyes glowed and his breath came and went through his throat with a hissing sound. 'Strike! as the men and women struck in Paris on that great day in July. To them the Bastille stood for tyranny-- and the tyrant cowered, cringed, made terms-- he was frightened at the wrath of the people! That is what happened in Paris! That is what must happen in Nantes. The ch?teau of the duc de Kernogan is our Bastille! Let us strike at it to-night, and if the arrogant aristocrat resists, we'll raze his house to the ground. The hour, the day, the darkness are all propitious. The arrangements hold good. The neighbours are ready. Strike, I say!'
He brought his hard fist crashing down upon the table, so that mugs and bottles rattled: his enthusiasm had fired all his hearers: his hatred and his lust of revenge had done more in five minutes than all the tirades of the agitators sent down from Paris to instil revolutionary ideas into the slow-moving brains of village lads.
'Who will give the signal?' queried one of the older men quietly.
