The Scarlet Pimpernel

By Emmuska Orczy

The Scarlet Pimpernel is a classic play and adventure novel by Baroness Emmuska Orczy, set during the Reign of Terror following the start of the French Revolution. The story is a precursor to the "disguised superhero" tales such as Zorro, Superman and Batman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wilder Publications, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9781515457480

Emmuska Orczy

Baroness Orczy (1865–1947) was initially born in Hungary but raised throughout Europe. She was educated in Brussels, London, Paris and Budapest where she studied creative arts. In 1899, Orczy would publish her first novel entitled, The Emperor's Candlesticks. It wasn’t a massive success but led to more writing opportunities including a series of detective stories. A few years later, she wrote and produced a stage play called The Scarlet Pimpernel, which she’d later adapt into a novel. It went on to become her most famous work and is considered a literary masterpiece of the twentieth century.

Book preview

The Scarlet Pimpernel

by Emmuska Orczy

© 2022 SMK Books

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, used, or transmitted in any form or manner by any means: electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express, prior written permission of the author and/or publisher, except for brief quotations for review purposes only.

Hardcover ISBN 13: 978-1-5154-3183-1

Trade Paperback ISBN 13: 978-1-6172-0095-3

E-book ISBN 13: 978-1-5154-5748-0

Table of Contents

Paris: September, 1792

Dover: The Fisherman’s Rest

The Refugees

The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel

Marguerite

An Exquisite of ‘92

The Secret Orchard

The Accredited Agent

The Outrage

In the Opera Box

Lord Grenville’s Ball

The Scrap of Paper

Either—Or?

One O’clock Precisely!

Doubt

Richmond

Farewell

The Mysterious Device

The Scarlet Pimpernel

The Friend

Suspense

Calais

Hope

The Death-Trap

The Eagle and the Fox

The Jew

On the Track

The Pere Blanchard’s Hut

Trapped

The Schooner

The Escape

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 Greve 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 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 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 feelings 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 metres 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 car 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.

The women who drove the carts usually spent their day on the Place de la Greve, beneath the platform of the guillotine, knitting and gossiping, whilst they watched the rows of tumbrils arriving with the victims the Reign of Terror claimed every day. It was great fun to see the aristos arriving for the reception of Madame la Guillotine, and the places close by the platform were very much sought after. Bibot, during the day, had been on duty on the Place. He recognized most of the old hats, tricotteuses, as they were called, who sat there and knitted, whilst head after head fell beneath the knife, and they themselves got quite bespattered with the blood of those cursed aristos.

He! la mere! said Bibot to one of these horrible hags, what have you got there?

He had seen her earlier in the day, with her knitting and the whip of her cart close beside her. Now she had fastened a row of curly locks to the whip handle, all colours, from gold to silver, fair to dark, and she stroked them with her huge, bony fingers as she laughed at Bibot.

I made friends with Madame Guillotine’s lover, she said with a coarse laugh, he cut these off for me from the heads as they rolled down. He has promised me some more to-morrow, but I don’t know if I shall be at my usual place.

Ah! how is that, la mere? asked Bibot, who, hardened soldier that he was, could not help shuddering at the awful loathsomeness of this semblance of a woman, with her ghastly trophy on the handle of her whip.

My grandson has got the small-pox, she said with a jerk of her thumb towards the inside of her cart, some say it’s the plague! If it is, I sha’n’t be allowed to come into Paris to-morrow. At the first mention of the word small-pox, Bibot had stepped hastily backwards, and when the old hag spoke of the plague, he retreated from her as fast as he could.

Curse you! he muttered, whilst the whole crowd hastily avoided the cart, leaving it standing all alone in the midst of the place.

The old hag laughed.

Curse you, citoyen, for being a coward, she said. Bah! what a man to be afraid of sickness.

"Morbleu! the plague!"

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.

Get out with you and with your plague-stricken brood! shouted Bibot, hoarsely.

And with another rough laugh and coarse jest, the old hag whipped up her lean nag and drove her cart out of the gate.

This incident had spoilt the afternoon. The people were terrified of these two horrible curses, the two maladies which nothing could cure, and which were the precursors of an awful and lonely death. They hung about the barricades, silent and sullen for a while, eyeing one another suspiciously, avoiding each other as if by instinct, lest the plague lurked already in their midst. Presently, as in the case of Grospierre, a captain of the guard appeared suddenly. But he was known to Bibot, and there was no fear of his turning out to be a sly Englishman in disguise.

A cart, . . . he shouted breathlessly, even before he had reached the gates.

What cart? asked Bibot, roughly.

Driven by an old hag. . . . A covered cart . . .

There were a dozen . . .

An old hag who said her son had the plague?

Yes . . .

You have not let them go?

"Morbleu!" said Bibot, whose purple cheeks had suddenly become white with fear.

"The cart contained the ci-devant Comtesse de Tourney and her two children, all of them traitors and condemned to death. And their driver?" muttered Bibot, as a superstitious shudder ran down his spine.

"Sacre tonnerre, said the captain, but it is feared that it was that accursed Englishman himself—the Scarlet Pimpernel."

Dover: The Fisherman’s Rest

In the kitchen Sally was extremely busy—saucepans and frying-pans were standing in rows on the gigantic hearth, the huge stock-pot stood in a corner, and the jack turned with slow deliberation, and presented alternately to the glow every side of a noble sirloin of beef. The two little kitchen-maids bustled around, eager to help, hot and panting, with cotton sleeves well tucked up above the dimpled elbows, and giggling over some private jokes of their own, whenever Miss Sally’s back was turned for a moment. And old Jemima, stolid in temper and solid in bulk, kept up a long and subdued grumble, while she stirred the stock-pot methodically over the fire.

What ho! Sally! came in cheerful if none too melodious accents from the coffee-room close by.

Lud bless my soul! exclaimed Sally, with a good-humoured laugh, what be they all wanting now, I wonder!

Beer, of course, grumbled Jemima, you don’t ‘xpect Jimmy Pitkin to ‘ave done with one tankard, do ye?

Mr. ‘Arry, ‘e looked uncommon thirsty too, simpered Martha, one of the little kitchen-maids; and her beady black eyes twinkled as they met those of her companion, whereupon both started on a round of short and suppressed giggles.

Sally looked cross for a moment, and thoughtfully rubbed her hands against her shapely hips; her palms were itching, evidently, to come in contact with Martha’s rosy cheeks—but inherent good-humour prevailed, and with a pout and a shrug of the shoulders, she turned her attention to the fried potatoes.

What ho, Sally! hey, Sally!

And a chorus of pewter mugs, tapped with impatient hands against the oak tables of the coffee-room, accompanied the shouts for mine host’s buxom daughter.

Sally! shouted a more persistent voice, are ye goin’ to be all night with that there beer?

I do think father might get the beer for them, muttered Sally, as Jemima, stolidly and without further comment, took a couple of foam-crowned jugs from the shelf, and began filling a number of pewter tankards with some of that home-brewed ale for which The Fisherman’s Rest had been famous since that days of King Charles. ’E knows ‘ow busy we are in ‘ere.

Your father is too busy discussing politics with Mr. ‘Empseed to worry ‘isself about you and the kitchen, grumbled Jemima under her breath.

Sally had gone to the small mirror which hung in a corner of the kitchen, and was hastily smoothing her hair and setting her frilled cap at its most becoming angle over her dark curls; then she took up the tankards by their handles, three in each strong, brown hand, and laughing, grumbling, blushing, carried them through into the coffee room.

There, there was certainly no sign of that bustle and activity which kept four women busy and hot in the glowing kitchen beyond.

The coffee-room of The Fisherman’s Rest is a show place now at the beginning of the twentieth century. At the end of the eighteenth, in the year of grace 1792, it had not yet gained the notoriety and importance which a hundred additional years and the craze of the age have since bestowed upon it. Yet it was an old place, even then, for the oak rafters and beams were already black with age—as were the panelled seats, with their tall backs, and the long polished tables between, on which innumerable pewter tankards had left fantastic patterns of many-sized rings. In the leaded window, high up, a row of pots of scarlet geraniums and blue larkspur gave the bright note of colour against the dull background of the oak.

That Mr. Jellyband, landlord of The Fisherman’s Rest at Dover, was a prosperous man, was of course clear to the most casual observer. The pewter on the fine old dressers, the brass above the gigantic hearth, shone like silver and gold—the red-tiled floor was as brilliant as the scarlet geranium on the window sill—this meant that his servants were good and plentiful, that the custom was constant, and of that order which necessitated the keeping up of the coffee-room to a high standard of elegance and order.

As Sally came in, laughing through her frowns, and displaying a row of dazzling white teeth, she was greeted with shouts and chorus of applause.

Why, here’s Sally! What ho, Sally! Hurrah for pretty Sally!

I thought you’d grown deaf in that kitchen of yours, muttered Jimmy Pitkin, as he passed the back of his hand across his very dry lips.

All ri’! all ri’! laughed Sally, as she deposited the freshly-filled tankards upon the tables, why, what a ‘urry to be sure! And is your gran’mother a-dyin’ an’ you wantin’ to see the pore soul afore she’m gone! I never see’d such a mighty rushin’ A chorus of good-humoured laughter greeted this witticism, which gave the company there present food for many jokes, for some considerable time. Sally now seemed in less of a hurry to get back to her pots and pans. A young man with fair curly hair, and eager, bright blue eyes, was engaging most of her attention and the whole of her time, whilst broad witticisms anent Jimmy Pitkin’s fictitious grandmother flew from mouth to mouth, mixed with heavy puffs of pungent tobacco smoke.

Facing the hearth, his legs wide apart, a long clay pipe in his mouth, stood mine host himself, worthy Mr. Jellyband, landlord of The Fisherman’s Rest, as his father had before him, aye, and his grandfather and great-grandfather too, for that matter. Portly in build, jovial in countenance and somewhat bald of pate, Mr. Jellyband was indeed a typical rural John Bull of those days—the days when our prejudiced insularity was at its height, when to an Englishman, be he lord, yeoman, or peasant, the whole of the continent of Europe was a den of immorality and the rest of the world an unexploited land of savages and cannibals.

There he stood, mine worthy host, firm and well set up on his limbs, smoking his long churchwarden and caring nothing for nobody at home, and despising everybody abroad. He wore the typical scarlet waistcoat, with shiny brass buttons, the corduroy breeches, and grey worsted stockings and smart buckled shoes, that characterised every self-respecting innkeeper in Great Britain in these days—and while pretty, motherless Sally had need of four pairs of brown hands to do all the work that fell on her shapely shoulders, worthy Jellyband discussed the affairs of nations with his most privileged guests.

The coffee-room indeed, lighted by two well-polished lamps, which hung from the raftered ceiling, looked cheerful and cosy in the extreme. Through the dense clouds of tobacco smoke that hung about in every corner, the faces of Mr. Jellyband’s customers appeared red and pleasant to look at, and on good terms with themselves, their host and all the world; from every side of the room loud guffaws accompanied pleasant, if not highly intellectual, conversation—while Sally’s repeated giggles testified to the good use Mr. Harry Waite was making of the short time she seemed inclined to spare him.

They were mostly fisher-folk who patronised Mr. Jellyband’s coffee-room, but fishermen are known to be very thirsty people; the salt which they breathe in, when they are on the sea, accounts for their parched throats when on shore, but The Fisherman’s Rest was something more than a rendezvous for these humble folk. The London and Dover coach started from the hostel daily, and passengers who had come across the Channel, and those who started for the grand tour, all became acquainted with Mr. Jellyband, his French wines and his home-brewed ales.

It was towards the close of September, 1792, and the weather which had been brilliant and hot throughout the month had suddenly broken up; for two days torrents of rain had deluged the south of England, doing its level best to ruin what chances the apples and pears and late plums had of becoming really fine, self-respecting fruit. Even now it was beating against the leaded windows, and tumbling down the chimney, making the cheerful wood fire sizzle in the hearth.

Lud! did you ever see such a wet September, Mr. Jellyband?

Reviews for The Scarlet Pimpernel

[judygibson-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I first read this book as a young teenager, swooning with the romantic heroism of the lead characters. The book doesn't stand up so well as an adult story, still interesting as a historical piece.

[deltaqueen50 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I don’t know how I missed reading The Scarlet Pimpernel before now, but I am certainly glad that I finally picked it up. This was a fun swashbuckler of a story with Sir Percy Blakeney as the romantic hero who is saving French aristocrats from the guillotine. He keeps his identity a secret from everyone, including his beautiful French wife, Marguerite by playing at being a dimwitted fashionable fop who cares more about the cut of his jacket than in embarking on rescue missions. Of course all great heroes need evil, dastardly villains to out-smart and in the French spy, Chauvelin, the Scarlet Pimpernel has an excellent foil. The book rewards the reader with suspense, romantic misunderstandings, and epic adventure.Yes, the language is a little old-fashioned, there are a couple of cringe worthy slurs as well as a cartoon-like portrayal of a Jewish gentleman, and a somewhat dated attitude towards women but mostly I found the 1905 book, The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Emmuska Orczy a wonderful piece of historical fiction.

[sriddell_8 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Wonderful book!

The Scarlet Pimpernel (named after a small red flower that is his signature) is engaged in saving French loyalists from the guillotine during the French Revolution. Using disguises and cunning, the Scarlet Pimpernel performs these daring rescues right under the noses of the angry mob.

When he's not rescuing French loyalists, the Scarlet Pimpernel is mild-mannered, foppish, wealthy Sir Percy Blakeney. He disguises his activities by appearing to be utterly useless. So good is his disguise that even his own wife doesn't know his alter-identity.

This book is considered the proto-type for many heroes to follow: Zorro, Batman and others. It's been made into a few movies, and now I need to watch some of them!

[murderbydeath · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The woefully small number on my "read - classics" shelf has increased by 1. While I've always known of The Scarlet Pimpernel as a character - an English spy - that is infamous for his daring rescues of French aristocrats, I don't think I ever really knew it was a book. I can offer up no reason or excuse for this, but thanks to my BookLikes friends, it's a lapse that has been corrected. My copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel is a FOTL find from my recent vacation and the cover says it is part of the "The Best Mysteries of All Time" series. I wouldn't call this a mystery, though. It felt more like an early 1900's action-suspense novel to me. As a reader, was there ever really much doubt who The Scarlet Pimpernel was? But the intrigue, the manipulation, the threats, the warnings, the running, the escape... and the escapes! Lots of action and lots of suspense. A lot of readers point to the florid writing and I agree, it is rather less er...modern than most books I've read that were written in the same time frame. But the story itself takes place during the French Revolution, so the writing didn't feel out of place to me and I didn't struggle at all with comprehension after the first page or so. I won't pretend that I didn't have some confusion over Marguerite - I never quite got what the author wanted me to think about her 'wittiest woman in all of Europe'. There was a bit of bouncing between strong/weak, smart/dim, stoicism/over-wrought-female. But this was written over 100 years ago about a time over 150 years ago. I have no idea what women were like 150 years ago but I'm certain I'd not identify with them overmuch. For me, it was the last few chapters that drove me away from a full five stars. Could everything that happened after the scene in the 'Chat Gris' been strung out any longer? I was beginning to feel like an over-wound spring; I found myself thinking "Oh just something HAPPEN already!! Gah!" The story was great fun and I clearly see why it is still such a popular choice. It's a true classic and even though I've heard from everyone that the sequels just don't compare to this first, I find myself tempted to hunt one down to see what happens next.

[starbox_2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A rip-roaring must-keep-reading adventure story - highly implausible, but highly entertaining.It's 1792; in Paris the bloody Revolution is underway. Meanwhile a group of bold English aristocrats, led by the elusive Pimpernel, are masterminding the evacuation of French nobles to England.As beautiful French former actres Marguerite (wife of drawling fop, Sir Percy Blakeney) meets an escaped woman and her children, she reflects on her own (inadvertent) responsibility for the guillotining of an aristocrat. Her husband seemed to grow cold towards her from that point.And as her beloved brother crosses the channel, risking his life to save others...she wishes her husband could be so heroic as the Pimpernel they all follow.Meanwhile, French spy, the dogged Chauvelin, is determined to uncover the identity of that hero. And if Marguerite won't help, her brother's life is at risk..

[comfypants · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

A British man uses disguises to rescue aristocrats from the French Revolution.1/4 (Bad).So boring. At least three quarters of this book are filler stalling for space.(Dec. 2021)

[bdgamer-669415 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I've never really liked the classical stories because they feel so naive. They're almost always black-and-white and simple to the core. It's this straightforward nature that I like, however, in The Scarlet Pimpernel.

This book is said to have served as an inspiration to the Batman character, and it's quite easy to see why. But I'm not going to dwell on that. More importantly, this is a book on romance and love. It's about trusting someone and putting your faith in that person. It's about falling in love with someone for their charm and personality. It's about grasping on to that little bit of truth no matter how dire the situation becomes.

If you haven't figured it out by now, I really liked the book. :-p

[glenrh · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is considered a classic in some circles. And it may fit some definitions of that genre. I have wanted to read it for sometime, but now that I have read it, it doesn't live up to the expectations that the hype gave me. The plot twists were obvious, the end was certain (given the historical period). I did like it but it was suspenseful only because I had to wait for what I knew was coming. I guess it played on my impatiences more than it did on sense of suspense.

[raizel_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I loved this book for many years (see my other record for it); but having reread it, I now see it as a soppy romance novel, told from Margaruite's point of view, and not the swashbuckler I had remembered it as.

[gmomaj · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The French Revolution is at the height of its fury. Daily, hundreds of aristocratic heads fall from the guillotine. Emotions run high, and anyone suspected of sympathy toward the nobility is in mortal danger. Only one man is daring enough to lead a small band against popular opinion-the Scarlet Pimpernel. Using masterful disguises and clever strategies, the Scarlet Pimpernel smuggles noblemen and women from France to safety in England. His success is a thorn in the side of the Revolution. As he vanishes from each escapade, he leaves no trace behind except an image of the colorful flower that is his emblem. The Scarlet Pimpernel must be stopped at all costs. But who is he? This enduring classic is filled with wonderful layers of intrigue and dashing courage.

[sandyamcpherson · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I continue to like this story, having read it some time back in the 1970's. Happily, this story is interesting and nothing as tedious as the Baroness' Tea House Detective novels (I only finished one in that series, Unravelled Knots). The Pimpernel character is well-drawn, with a character who provides many amusing stratagems and affectations to prevent discovery.I reduced my original enthusiasm for the story as a whole (i.e. down from 4*'s) because the dialogue is too often ponderous, coming across rather awkwardly in many of the scenes. Even allowing for the conventions of conversation amongst the upper classes of the late 1700's, some gentling of the flowery periods and mendacious speech would not have ruined the historical setting. As well, narratives need a variation in the pace of the action, angst and stress. The mood of an unremitting hell-bent-for-leather action and anguish is hard to sustain for long if it's to be an enjoyable read. Despite that caveat, Baroness Orczy's novel is a fine example of the early 1900's adventure format and recommended for those who love reading the romantic period of novels (meaning 'romantic' as in an emphasis on the imagination and emotions, such as arose in the 18th century).An intriguing aspect about the setting for the Pimpernel ~ British aristos in Paris, French emigrés, swashbuckling heroes ~ the story theme resonates strongly in other writings by the authors of the day (such as Georgette Heyer). Comparatively, The Scarlet Pimpernel is written in a style that is a little too dated, although written not that much earlier than These Old Shades, one of Heyer's earliest Georgian/Regency novels, set close to a similar time period. So ~ in my mind, the execution compares poorly with Heyer's books. Nevertheless, Orczy's premise of a daring hero who cultivates a a meek, dandified manner to disguise his dangerous escapades has proved an enduring trope.

[romonko · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This gem of a book was originally published in 1933 by Baroness Orczy and it deservedly has been through many publications since. I had not read it before I received it as a SantaThing gift a year ago. It has been laying quietly on my TBR pile by my bed since then, and then I finally thought that I should read it. I found the book very enjoyable. My first thought was that it was an adventure story told in the "swashbuckling" style, and it is that, but it is, first and foremost, a very tender love story. (perfect for Valentine's Day reading). The book was set in the late 18th century in England and northern France, and the main plot driver was the revolution in France after The King and Queen of France had been deposed and beheaded. The citizens of France have taken over governance and have been keeping "Madame Guillotine" very busy every day beheading the French nobility. The mythical figure of the Scarlet Pimpernel has risen to the fore, pulling off brazen and successful soirees into France to get some of the nobility out of France and to England for safety. No one knows who he is but he has a very willing group of about 16 or 17 people who help him in these attempts. While reading of his exploits we meet the lovely and accomplished Lady Marguerite Blakeney and her husband Sir Percy Blakeney. Unbeknown to Marguerite, her dashing husband plays a larger role in the exploits of the Scarlet Pimpernel then she thought. As we watch the story unfold, we see a monumental love story opening up in front of us and in amongst all the danger and tempestuousness of this very dangerous time. Written with remarkable skill, the Baroness presents her story to us and draws us all into her web of honour, deceit, love and revenge. This is a great adventure story and a great romance Not often do you get both in the same book. The book very capably stands the test of time.

[nadinec.keels · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Reign of Terror is claiming aristocratic victims in 1792 France, feeding Madame la Guillotine. A mysterious master of disguises called by the name of a red flower has gone about saving those he can, but a French agent, Chauvelin, is out to stop the elusive rescuer in The Scarlet Pimpernel by author Baroness Orczy.It'd been over a decade since the last time I read this classic. As I jumped into the novel rather blindly the first time around, I had the luxury of being delightfully surprised by the emotional married-couple love story in this tale of danger and intrigue. I also got to be surprised when learning the identity of The Scarlet Pimpernel that time.Would I still enjoy the book even without being surprised?Yes, I did enjoy the book this second time, though not quite as much as before. I can still appreciate the old-fashioned, fairly over-the-top drama for what it is, and the old-timey "oaths" the characters exclaim make me snicker, not wince. Plus, parts of the heroine's journey really speak my language as her moral crisis changes her and she opts to take "useful action" rather than to merely wallow in "empty remorse."Yet, I've now noticed how redundant the writing is at times, and some scenes are pretty drawn-out, taking longer to get to the point and the action than they need to. Also, while it isn't the only aspect of the tale involving characters' ridiculousness, the negative Jewish stereotyping in the last third or so of the book indeed stretches itself into the realm of the ridiculous, and it may be more than the characters' doing.This tale leaves some unfinished business that reemerges in further reading I haven't read about The Scarlet Pimpernel. Maybe I'll at least check out The Elusive Pimpernel sometime. We'll see.

[ladycato · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I am reading at least one classic book each month. My pick for August was The Scarlet Pimpernel. I've seen the 1930s movie and enjoyed it, and I was surprised at how closely the Hollywood take followed the plot, down to the famous rhyme. The book, though, is really quite feminist in perspective. At heart, it's a tale of noblewoman does wrong, noblewoman strives to do right to make up for her error, even amid danger. The book doesn't contain much daring-do action; it's more about spy work.By far the most aggravating thing in the book, though, is a blatantly anti-Semitic caricature right at the end. I suppose I should have expected something like that, in keeping with the time period in which it was written, but I had enjoyed the book so much until then. Prepare to cringe through that sequence.

[dmturner · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

It hasn’t worn well

So many of the books I read and reread as a child have proved flawed, and The Scarlet Pimpernel is no exception. I am no longer entranced by aristocracy, oblivious to anti-Semitism, indifferent to misogyny, or ignorant of history, alas. I probably should not have tried to read one of my old favorite romantic adventures. But I did make it through the whole thing.

[darthdeverell · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Defined at its most basic level, a superhero is a vigilante with a secret identity and a gimmick that sets them apart from ordinary vigilantes. Hungarian-born British playwright Baroness Emma Magdolna Rozália Mária Jozefa Borbála Orczy de Orci’s The Scarlet Pimpernel features as its titular main character a British aristocrat who uses disguises to conceal his identity as he aids nobles in their escape from the Reign of Terror during the French Revolution, signing his notes to his accomplices and his taunts to the French authorities with a scarlet pimpernel flower (Anagallis arvensis). Baroness Orczy based this 1905 novel on her original 1903 play, with her superhero predating Johnston McCulley’s Zorro by 14 years and Walter B. Gibson’s The Shadow by at least 25 years (depending on if one begins with the play or novel and counts The Shadow’s first radio appearance or the first magazine story), though the first superheroes as most know them wouldn’t appear until 1938 and ’39 with Superman and the Batman, respectively. Baroness Orci published five further novels and one short story collection before the appearance of Zorro in 1919, an additional four novels and short story collection before the appearance of The Shadow, and three more novels before the first appearance of Superman, with her final Scarlet Pimpernel novel, Mam’zelle Guillotine, appearing in 1940. In total, Baroness Orczy’s superhero appears in eleven novels and two short story collections, with the series also including two novels about his ancestor and one about his descendant.The basic plot revolves around Sir Percy Blakeney, a baronet who uses the guise of the Scarlet Pimpernel to rescue French aristocrats. Like the Batman years later, Sir Percy Blakeney acts “the lazy nincompoop, the effete fop, whose life seemed spent in card and supper rooms” so as to throw off those who would discover the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel (pg. 128). Madame Orczy describes Sir Blakeney’s mansion in terms that similarly recall Wayne Manor, all of it a further part of his disguise as a vain aristocrat (pg. 129). Citizen Chauvelin pursues the Pimpernel on behalf of the Committee of Public Safety, seeking to discover his identity and prevent him aiding aristocrats in their escape. Meanwhile, Marguerite Blakeney, the wife of Sir Percy, stumbles across and inadvertently reveals his identity after Chauvelin’s attempts to blackmail her by threatening her brother, Armand St. Just, who still resides in France and is threatened by the republican forces currently orchestrating the Reign of Terror. In many way, the various aristocrats’ discussion of the Scarlet Pimpernel coupled with the misunderstandings between Marguerite and others reflect some of the drawing room farces popular only a decade prior to the novel’s publication in the Victorian era. Like any proper superhero story, the Pimpernel’s adventures continued as Baroness Orczy published a sequel, I Will Repay, one year later in 1906. The third act does have some alarming ethnic stereotypes reflective of the period in which Baroness Orczy wrote, but the rest is entertaining and the work itself is worthy of study for its place in genre fiction. This edition, part of ImPress’s “The Best Mysteries of All Time” series, reprints the original 1905 text in its entirety with a red leather cover. It makes a lovely gift edition for fans of the original work or book collectors looking to add to their shelves.

[danhammang · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Great history, from both the classic sense of history and also in the sense of history of plotting in a mystery. The historical landscape is carefully described. It is also counterintuitive in terms of underdog/favorite dynamics. And the plotting itself is very clever, particularly so when you place it early on the development of mystery plotting. The chapters are short so it is also easy to pick up and set down.

[leslie398 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Despite knowing the plot well from previous reads (and the classic film version), I still found the book caught me up in the thrills. There were many little details that I had forgotten.

[sarahgracegrzy · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

WOW!! This book was amazing! A classic and a must read! I am not going to write a real review because it would be all spoilers anyway, so just know that you should read this! Some parts were hard from me to get through (lotttts of description!) but I am glad I kept at it, and in the end, this is now one of my favorite classics!

[cinnamonandspite · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Lady Blakeney is a bit of a disappointment, considering she was written by a woman. However, the story being told through her point of view is a very interesting device. They are the proto-couple for Nick and Nora Charles (of the movies). Sir Percy himself is fantastic, and despite the slow-start to the book, the writing is exciting and story very captivating.

[erinclark_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A fun adventurous romp. A bit repetitive near the end but a thoroughly enjoyable read. Love the effusive language, so fun and often pompous. Highly recommended.

[heidiangell · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I LOVE this story!! I have read every version and adaptation, even the graphic novel!! I have also seen pretty much every version on film! The espionage, the duplicity, the tension, and drama are fantastic! Not to mention that the Scarlet Pimpernel is just the greatest pre-super hero, hero EVER!!!!

[ishanella · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I listened to the audio book, narrated by Mary Sarah. Audio books can be tricky, because loving it often depends on how good the narrator is. I thought that Mary Sarah was a great narrator and she added to the experience of the book.

The Scarlet Pimpernel started off a little slowly to give readers an idea of setting and main characters. After these are established it's a page turner. I almost stopped the audio so that I could read the story myself, it pulled me in.

As always, leaves me wanting more of the story, more of Marguerite and Percy and just more of this unassuming hero, using the prejudices of his society to save the innocent.

[jackmassa · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Justly famous for it's theatrical style, outrageous intrigue and less-than-2-percent-body-fat plot. I enjoyed it despite the florid writing and simplistic, one-sided view of historic events. Still, I must say, if the French secret police were really this dense, I too could have duped them as often and with equal panache.

[lamotamant · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I read this as part of a monthly challenge in one of the groups I participate in. The parameters for the challenge being Classics, "read either a Shakespearean play or a classic love story." Amidst high school AP Lit flashbacks of the butcherings of Othello by the average drawling teen, I set out on the latter.

'Odd's Fish!' I ended up really liking this quick read more than I thought I might. It's adventurous, fun, and it all ties up nicely in the end according to the majority of the wants and whims of the time's reading set.

[empress8411 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I read this many year ago and it was a favorite back then. It's still excellent - although I can tell my tastes have changed over time. I don't remember it being quite so - sappy. But then, I think I read it during a sappy time. My favorite trivia about this book is it is generally considered to be one of the main sources of inspiration for Batman/Bruce Wayne. And considering how clever Blakeney is, one has no trouble believing that. With humor, love, adventure, and much daring-do, this is an fine read, perfect for rainy days on couch or sunny beaches by the water. Highly recommend, particularly if you enjoy light literature or need a break.

[josielynn-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I was first exposed to The Scarlet Pimpernel by my ninth grade English teacher whose approach to teaching ninth grade English seems to have been getting literature down the throats of teenagers by any means necessary. More often than not, this meant showing us the movie version of novels rather than actually requiring us to read them. One spring day, we watched the 1982 version of The Scarlett Pimpernel with Anthony Andrews and Jane Seymour.

I was smitten.

Shortly thereafter, I found a used copy for sell at my local public library and for just $0.25 the world of Sir Percy Blakeney and Marguerite Blakeney was mine! I devoured it.

Twice smitten.

The Scarlet Pimpernel is a cat and mouse tale of an English nobleman who is hell-bent on saving his French counterparts from the bloody blade of the guillotine during the French Revolution. He has the annoying habit of leaving the symbol of red flower (a scarlet pimpernel, get it?) behind as a calling card and this has made everyone curious about his identity. The English have put him on a pedestal; the French have put a price on his head.

The book is filled with adventure, near-misses, secret identities, lies, espionage, shocking revelations, an arch-nemesis, and things that could/would never happen in real life, forcing you to suspend disbelief (just a tad). But that's why we read fiction, isn't it? I know there are a myriad of other reasons we read fiction, but sometimes it does come down to escapism, pure and simple.

However, despite all of the high drama, danger and excitement, there is a part of me that sees The Scarlett Pimpernel simply as a love story. Not as a simple love story; maybe, and perhaps more accurately, a love triangle along the lines of the Clark Kent-Lois Lane-Superman love triangle.

Marguerite is married to Sir Percy, but she is in love with the idea of another whose initials also are S.P. (hum...) Sir Percy seemed like a decent guy when she agreed to marry him but alas, now he seems doltish, and what's even worse, he seems quite indifferent to her. Sir Percy and Marguerite's marriage is in crisis. True, it's not as big a crisis as the French Revolution, but Baroness Orczy has skillfully juxtaposed one against the other. As the drama of the revolution plays out in the background and the world (well, France) falls apart, we can quietly explore the anatomy of a failing marriage (and possibly contemplate such questions as: How well can you really know the person closest to you? Do you only know what he/she chooses to reveal to you? Could you forgive the ultimate betrayal? Could those glasses really fool Lois Lane? Really?!)

In the end, The Scarlett Pimpernel is a sweet and tender tale that proves you can never hide your true essence from the one who loves you best.

Plus, it's about a hero. We can never have too many heroes. The Scarlet Pimpernel is one for the ages.

[philsyphe · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I found this engaging at times, I liked the title character and the heroine, but the amount of waffle proved tiresome.The Scarlet Pimpernel's identity was easy to work out, as were certain plotlines. In short, not as good as expected.

[scribblingsprite · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

That was good fun.

[claire5555 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Excellent book, if you like the films you will like this book