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The Scarlet Pimpernel (Signet Classics) Mass Market Paperback – May 1, 2000
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The year is 1792. The French Revolution, driven to excess by its own triumph, has turned into a reign of terror. Daily, tumbrels bearing new victims to the guillotine roll over the cobbled streets of Paris.… Thus the stage is set for one of the most enthralling novels of historical adventure ever written.
The mysterious figure known as the Scarlet Pimpernel, sworn to rescue helpless men, women, and children from their doom; his implacable foe, the French agent Chauvelin, relentlessly hunting him down; and lovely Marguerite Blakeney, a beautiful French exile married to an English lord and caught in a terrible conflict of loyalties—all play their parts in a suspenseful tale that ranges from the squalid slums of Paris to the aristocratic salons of London, from intrigue on a great English country estate to the final denouement on the cliffs of the French coast.
There have been many imitations of The Scarlet Pimpernel, but none has ever equaled its superb sense of color and drama and its irresistible gift of wonderfully romantic escape.
With an Introduction by Gary Hoppenstand
- Print length288 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherSignet
- Publication dateMay 1, 2000
- Dimensions4.19 x 0.73 x 7.88 inches
- ISBN-100451527623
- ISBN-13978-0451527622
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From the Back Cover
The mysterious figure known as the Scarlet Pimpernel, sworn to rescue helpless men, women, and children from their doom; his implacable foe, the French agent Chauvelin, relentlessly hunting him down; and the lovely Lady Marguerite Blakeney, a beautiful French exile married to an English lord and caught in a terrible conflict of loyalties -- all play their parts in a suspenseful tale that ranges from the squalid slums of Paris to the aristocratic salons of London, from intrigue on a great English country estate to the final denouement on the cliffs of the French coast.
About the Author
Gary Hoppenstand is a professor who teaches in the Department of American Thought and Language at Michigan State University. He has published numerous books and articles on topics ranging from nineteenth-century British and American literature to film studies. He has been nominated twice for the World Fantasy Award, and he has won the Popular Culture Association's National Book Award for his textbook, Popular Fiction: An Anthology. He has worked on a Penguin Twentieth-Century Classics edition of P.C. Wren's Beau Geste and has published a Penguin Classics omnibus edition of Anthony Hope's two novels The Prisoner of Zenda and Rupert of Hentzau.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Paris: September 1792
A surging, seething, murmuring crowd, of beings that are human only in name, for to the eye and ear they seem naught but savage creatures, animated by vile passions and by the lust of vengeance and of hate. The hour, some little time before sunset, and the place, the West Barricade, at the very spot where, a decade later, a proud tyrant raised an undying monument to the nation’s glory and his own vanity.
During the greater part of the day the guillotine had been kept busy at its ghastly work: all that France had boasted of in the past centuries, of ancient names, and blue blood, had paid toll to her desire for liberty and for fraternity. The carnage had only ceased at this late hour of the day because there were other more interesting sights for the people to witness, a little while before the final closing of the barricades for the night.
And so the crowd rushed away from the Place de la Grève and made for the various barricades in order to watch this interesting and amusing sight.
It was to be seen every day, for those aristos were such fools! They were traitors to the people of course, all of them, men, women, and children, who happened to be descendants of the great men who since the Crusades had made the glory of France: her old noblesse. Their ancestors had oppressed the people, had crushed them under the scarlet heels of their dainty buckled shoes, and now the people had become the rulers of France and crushed their former masters—not beneath their heel, for they went shoeless mostly in these days—but beneath a more effectual weight, the knife of the guillotine.
And daily, hourly, the hideous instrument of torture claimed its many victims—old men, young women, tiny children, even until the day when it would finally demand the head of a King and of a beautiful young Queen.
But this was as it should be: were not the people now the rulers of France? Every aristocrat was a traitor, as his ancestors had been before him: for two hundred years now the people had sweated, and toiled, and starved, to keep a lustful court in lavish extravagance; now the descendants of those who had helped to make those courts brilliant had to hide for their lives—to fly, if they wished to avoid the tardy vengeance of the people.
And they did try to hide, and tried to fly: that was just the fun of the whole thing. Every afternoon before the gates closed and the market carts went out in procession by the various barricades, some fool of an aristo endeavoured to evade the clutches of the Committee of Public Safety. In various disguises, under various pretexts, they tried to slip through the barriers which were so well guarded by citizen soldiers of the Republic. Men in women’s clothes, women in male attire, children disguised in beggars’ rags: there were some of all sorts: ci-devant counts, marquises, even dukes, who wanted to fly from France, reach England or some other equally accursed country, and there try to rouse foreign feeling against the glorious Revolution, or to raise an army in order to liberate the wretched prisoners in the Temple, who had once called themselves sovereigns of France.
But they were nearly always caught at the barricades. Sergeant Bibot especially at the West Gate had a wonderful nose for scenting an aristo in the most perfect disguise. Then, of course, the fun began. Bibot would look at his prey as a cat looks upon the mouse, play with him, sometimes for quite a quarter of an hour, pretend to be hoodwinked by the disguise, by the wigs and other bits of theatrical make-up which hid the identity of a ci-devant noble marquise or count.
Oh! Bibot had a keen sense of humour, and it was well worth hanging round that West Barricade, in order to see him catch an aristo in the very act of trying to flee from the vengeance of the people.
Sometimes Bibot would let his prey actually out by the gates, allowing him to think for the space of two minutes at least that he really had escaped out of Paris, and might even manage to reach the coast of England in safety: but Bibot would let the unfortunate wretch walk about ten mètres towards the open country, then he would send two men after him and bring him back, stripped of his disguise.
Oh! that was extremely funny, for as often as not the fugitive would prove to be a woman, some proud marchioness, who looked terribly comical when she found herself in Bibot’s clutches after all, and knew that a summary trial would await her the next day and after that, the fond embrace of Madame la Guillotine.
No wonder that on this fine afternoon in September the crowd round Bibot’s gate was eager and excited. The lust of blood grows with its satisfaction, there is no satiety: the crowd had seen a hundred noble heads fall beneath the guillotine to-day, it wanted to make sure that it would see another hundred fall on the morrow.
Bibot was sitting on an overturned and empty cask close by the gate of the barricade; a small detachment of citoyen soldiers was under his command. The work had been very hot lately. Those cursed aristos were becoming terrified and tried their hardest to slip out of Paris: men, women and children, whose ancestors, even in remote ages, had served those traitorous Bourbons, were all traitors themselves and right food for the guillotine. Every day Bibot had had the satisfaction of unmasking some fugitive royalists and sending them back to be tried by the Committee of Public Safety, presided over by that good patriot, Citoyen Foucquier-Tinville.
Robespierre and Danton both had commended Bibot for his zeal, and Bibot was proud of the fact that he on his own initiative had sent at least fifty aristos to the guillotine.
But to-day all the sergeants in command at the various barricades had had special orders. Recently a very great number of aristos had succeeded in escaping out of France and in reaching England safely. There were curious rumours about these escapes; they had become very frequent and singularly daring; the people’s minds were becoming strangely excited about it all. Sergeant Grospierre had been sent to the guillotine for allowing a whole family of aristos to slip out of the North Gate under his very nose.
It was asserted that these escapes were organised by a band of Englishmen, whose daring seemed to be unparalleled, and who, from sheer desire to meddle in what did not concern them, spent their spare time in snatching away lawful victims destined for Madame la Guillotine. These rumours soon grew in extravagance; there was no doubt that this band of meddlesome Englishmen did exist; moreover, they seemed to be under the leadership of a man whose pluck and audacity were almost fabulous. Strange stories were afloat of how he and those aristos whom he rescued became suddenly invisible as they reached the barricades and escaped out of the gates by sheer supernatural agency.
No one had seen these mysterious Englishmen; as for their leader, he was never spoken of, save with a superstitious shudder. Citoyen Foucquier-Tinville would in the course of the day receive a scrap of paper from some mysterious source; sometimes he would find it in the pocket of his coat, at others it would be handed to him by someone in the crowd, whilst he was on his way to the sitting of the Committee of Public Safety. The paper always contained a brief notice that the band of meddlesome Englishmen were at work, and it was always signed with a device drawn in red—a little star-shaped flower, which we in England call the Scarlet Pimpernel. Within a few hours of the receipt of this impudent notice, the citoyens of the Committee of Public Safety would hear that so many royalists and aristocrats had succeeded in reaching the coast, and were on their way to England and safety.
The guards at the gates had been doubled, the sergeants in command had been threatened with death, whilst liberal rewards were offered for the capture of these daring and impudent Englishmen. There was a sum of five thousand francs promised to the man who laid hands on the mysterious and elusive Scarlet Pimpernel.
Everyone felt that Bibot would be that man, and Bibot allowed that belief to take firm root in everybody’s mind; and so, day after day, people came to watch him at the West Gate, so as to be present when he laid hands on any fugitive aristo who perhaps might be accompanied by that mysterious Englishman.
“Bah!” he said to his trusted corporal, “Citoyen Grospierre was a fool! Had it been me now, at that North Gate last week . . .”
Citoyen Bibot spat on the ground to express his contempt for his comrade’s stupidity.
“How did it happen, citoyen?” asked the corporal.
“Grospierre was at the gate, keeping good watch,” began Bibot, pompously, as the crowd closed in round him, listening eagerly to his narrative. “We’ve all heard of this meddlesome Englishman, this accursed Scarlet Pimpernel. He won’t get through my gate, morbleu! unless he be the devil himself. But Grospierre was a fool. The market carts were going through the gates; there was one laden with casks, and driven by an old man, with a boy beside him. Grospierre was a bit drunk, but he thought himself very clever; he looked into the casks—most of them, at least—and saw they were empty, and let the cart go through.”
A murmur of wrath and contempt went round the group of ill-clad wretches, who crowded round Citoyen Bibot.
“Half an hour later,” continued the sergeant, “up comes a captain of the guard with a squad of some dozen soldiers with him. ‘Has a cart gone through?’ he asks of Grospierre, breathlessly. ‘Yes,’ says Grospierre, ‘not half an hour ago.’ ‘And you have let them escape,’ shouts the captain furiously. ‘You’ll go to the guillotine for this, citoyen sergeant! that cart held concealed the ci-devant Duc de Chalis and all his family!’ ‘What!’ thunders Grospierre, aghast. ‘Aye! and the driver was none other than that cursed Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpernel.’ ”
A howl of execration greeted this tale. Citoyen Grospierre had paid for his blunder on the guillotine, but what a fool! oh! what a fool!
Bibot was laughing so much at his own tale that it was some time before he could continue.
“ ‘After them, my men,’ shouts the captain,” he said, after a while, “ ‘remember the reward; after them, they cannot have gone far!’ And with that he rushes through the gate, followed by his dozen soldiers.”
“But it was too late!” shouted the crowd, excitedly.
“They never got them!”
“Curse that Grospierre for his folly!”
“He deserved his fate!”
“Fancy not examining those casks properly!”
But these sallies seemed to amuse Citoyen Bibot exceedingly; he laughed until his sides ached, and the tears streamed down his cheeks.
“Nay, nay!” he said at last, “those aristos weren’t in the cart; the driver was not the Scarlet Pimpernel!”
“What?”
“No! The captain of the guard was that damned Englishman in disguise, and everyone of his soldiers aristos!”
The crowd this time said nothing: the story certainly savoured of the supernatural, and though the Republic had abolished God, it had not quite succeeded in killing the fear of the supernatural in the hearts of the people. Truly that Englishman must be the devil himself.
The sun was sinking low down in the west. Bibot prepared himself to close the gates.
“En avant the carts,” he said.
Some dozen covered carts were drawn up in a row, ready to leave town, in order to fetch the produce from the country close by, for market the next morning. They were mostly well known to Bibot, as they went through his gate twice every day on their way to and from the town. He spoke to one or two of their drivers—mostly women—and was at great pains to examine the inside of the carts.
“You never know,” he would say, “and I’m not going to be caught like that fool Grospierre.”
Product details
- Publisher : Signet; Reissue edition (May 1, 2000)
- Language : English
- Mass Market Paperback : 288 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0451527623
- ISBN-13 : 978-0451527622
- Item Weight : 0.012 ounces
- Dimensions : 4.19 x 0.73 x 7.88 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #46,209 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #474 in Espionage Thrillers (Books)
- #1,666 in Classic Literature & Fiction
- #19,969 in Genre Literature & Fiction
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The story focuses on Sir Percy Blakeney and his French wife Marguerite. Both are fabulously beautiful, fabulously fashionable, fabulously rich, the toast of London society. I must confess that I had the slightest crush on Sir Percy -- he is very tall, broad, muscular, rich, handsome, gallant and a close friend of the Prince of Wales. *sigh* If he is foppish, inane and somewhat droll, well that can all be easily overlooked because of all the above qualities. He is married to Marguerite, equally beautiful and widely regarded as the cleverest woman in Europe. Alas, their marriage of just one year, although begun in great passion and love, has already fallen on hard times; a misunderstanding has pushed them apart and they are little more than polite strangers.
The Scarlet Pimpernel is the mysterious, brave adventurer who has managed to rescue numerous French aristocrats from under the nose of the revolutionary forces and bring them safely to English shores. He is the hero of England, the talk of every party as everyone speculates on his true identity, and the bane of the French who would like nothing more than to capture and send him to the guillotine.
When Marguerite learns that her beloved brother has fallen into displeasure with the French revolutionaries and is destined for the guillotine, she is hopeful that The Scarlet Pimpernel will somehow rescue him. But when events compel her to return to France, she plunges both her brother and her husband into peril.
Before listening to this audio book I had read a synopsis of the book, and so I already knew the identity of The Scarlet Pimpernel. I wish I hadn't -- it would have been so much more enjoyable to begin the story knowing nothing. How long would it have taken me to figure it out?
Michael Page's narration is excellent -- Brilliance Audio does a wonderful job with their classic audio books. They have top-notch readers, and even add nice little touches like music at the beginning and end of each CD, and lovely artwork on every CD.
For a lover of classics and/or charming old-fashioned adventure stories, I highly recommend this one.
France is undergoing a bloody revolution, and aristocrats are being hunted down and taken to the guillotine... but a mysterious hero known only as the Scarlet Pimpernel is somehow rescuing these aristocrats and smuggling them to safety in England. Marguerite, a French actress who married a dull-witted British fop named Sir Percy, is one of many women who swoon over tales of the Pimpernel... but her life changes forever when she learns the Pimpernel's true identity. And when she learns he's being tracked by a sinister agent of the new French government, she sets off on her own perilous quest to save the Scarlet Pimpernel...
This book gets off to a slow start, but those who stick with it will find it worth the effort. The writing is much less stilted than other "classic" novels, and has quite a bit of humor and adventure to liven things up. And while some of its content can feel a bit dated, even cringey, it's surprisingly fair for its day, with its female protagonist actually being the focus of much of the plot. And while it's not as action-packed as I expected it to be, there's still a fair amount of intrigue and suspense that makes it well worth reading.
It's also fascinating to read this and see how it inspired other classic "vigilante characters in disguise" -- from Batman and Superman to The Phantom and Zorro. If this book feels like it hits a lot of the cliches of the genre, keep in mind that it's one of the first examples of said genre, and undoubtedly inspired many of those characters and spinoff stories. Anyone who's a fan of superhero stories, especially those featuring secret identities, should give this book a read and see where it all began.
A refreshingly fun classic novel, and a fascinating look at how a genre came into being. Definitely worth a read, even over a century after its publication.
As for the content, a very interested read; A bit of a page-turner. Very romantic, suspenseful, and adventurous. I think this book would be perfect for a modern movie re-make. Highly recommended! If you like adventures like Zorro or Robin Hood, you’ll like this one.
Reviewed in the United States on November 30, 2023
As for the content, a very interested read; A bit of a page-turner. Very romantic, suspenseful, and adventurous. I think this book would be perfect for a modern movie re-make. Highly recommended! If you like adventures like Zorro or Robin Hood, you’ll like this one.
Top reviews from other countries
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on July 11, 2020
I had always loved it from the first moment I read it. The amazing Sir Percy, the lovely Marguerite, the cunning villain Chauvelin. I have to admit though my favorite out of the lot is Sir Andrew. I'm so glad to have this book back and I will keep reading it for some time