I am not prejudiced or showing favoritism, but let's face it: It takes a woman to write a really good romance! Most of my favorite authors are in fact men. There's Charles Dickens, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Joseph Conrad. Dickens was most interested in portraying the poverty and abuse of children that reigned in London during his time, so romance was only a nominal theme of most of his stories, and in many it barely existed at all. Romance did however exist in the other two, but it was almost always dysfunctional, and I've read most of their works. Of course, there's Jane Austen and she did write great romances, and the Brontë sisters, who all died before they had a chance to be prolific writers, but they were all certainly supreme writers of romance.
    Then there's Baroness Orczy. Oh, my! Hot and passionate would describe this novel quite well. Also humorous, and that perfect term for daring heroes of the time: swashbuckling, all combined to make this a real page turner that you can't put down. I am quite certain I read this decades ago, but I remembered naught about it. Of course, back then I was not as fascinated with the French Revolution as I am now, and so I welcome books, either fictional or non, concerning this truly horrible time in "civilized" history, perhaps because I see the seeds of it sprouting once again, here in 2022. As you can see, I bought this particular book at the bargain price of 25 cents back when there was a Woolworth's dime story on Main Street in Ravenna. It is 382 pages, but that's with large type, Dover's Thrift edition is 224 pages, but either way, it's a short and easy read that guarantees great entertainment.
    Most books I've read concerning the French Revolution tend to favor towards the side of the Revolutionaries. Yes, their aristocracy did abuse the people, but chopping off all of their heads without allowing each case an opportunity of defense or justice, and assuming everyone with a title was evil was a bit in the extreme. As I said, that's gonna come around again, when people finally wake up and realize what is being done to the population by those in power, and the ones who aid and abet them. Being a poor nobody will become an asset.
    However, this story was written by a Baroness, so one might expect the favor was toward the aristocracy. Here's what Wikipedia says.

   Orczy was born in Tarnaörs, Heves County, Hungary. She was the daughter of the composer Baron Félix Orczy de Orci (1835-1892) and Countess Emma Wass de Szentegyed et Cege (1839-1892). Her paternal grandfather, Baron László Orczy (1787-1880) was a royal councillor, and knight of the Sicilian order of Saint George, her paternal grandmother, Baroness Magdolna, born Magdolna Müller (1811-1879), was of Austrian origin. Her maternal grandparents were the Count Sámuel Wass de Szentegyed et Cege (1815-1879), member of the Hungarian parliament, and Rozália Eperjessy de Károlyfejérvár (1814-1884).
   Emma's parents left their estate for Budapest in 1868, fearful of the threat of a peasant revolution. They lived in Budapest, Brussels, and Paris, where Emma studied music unsuccessfully. Finally, in 1880, the 14-year-old Emma and her family moved to London, England where they lodged with their countryman, Francis Pichler, at 162 Great Portland Street. Orczy attended West London School of Art and then the Heatherley School of Fine Art.
   Although not destined to be a painter, it was at art school that she met a young illustrator named Henry George Montagu MacLean Barstow, the son of an English clergyman; they were married at St Marylebone parish church on 7 November 1894. It was the start of a joyful and happy marriage, which she described as "for close on half a century, one of perfect happiness and understanding, of perfect friendship and communion of thought."

    Perhaps that is why she wrote such a great romance! They also point out that "Orczy's novels were racy, mannered melodramas and she favoured historical fiction." And they say, "She held strong political views. Orczy was a firm believer in the superiority of the aristocracy, as well as being a supporter of British imperialism and militarism," which would be obvious in reading this novel.
    But what astounded me was that she wrote lots and lots of sequels to this story. Project Gutenberg has most of them, and I am excited to read them. I hope they too are "racy, mannered melodramas"! And what on earth is a scarlet pimpernel? Though the name sounds like a skin rash, it is actually a wildflower, or being less complimentary, a weed. Here's what Wikipedia says:

   Anagallis arvensis (syn. Lysimachia arvensis), commonly known as the scarlet pimpernel, red pimpernel, red chickweed, poor man's barometer, poor man's weather-glass, shepherd's weather glass or shepherd's clock, is a species of low-growing annual plant with brightly coloured flowers, most often scarlet but also bright blue and sometimes pink. The native range of the species is Europe and Western Asia and North Africa. The species has been distributed widely by humans, either deliberately as an ornamental flower or accidentally.

    That's enough on the background of this book and the clever woman who wrote it. Now, on to the plot! The year is 1792, Paris. Aristocrats are being rounded up and guillotined by the hundreds before a "surging, seething, murmuring crowd," but it is when the barricades close that the crowd rushes there to observe those that attempt to escape, only to be caught. However, a problem was occurring which was so unbelievable that many thought sorcery might be involved. Aristocrats were, in fact, escaping and no one knew how it was happening. "It was asserted that these escapes were organized 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." "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."
    Indeed, it most certainly appeared that way, and was always accompanied with a tiny scrap of paper that announced that the band of Meddlesome English were at work, "and it was always signed with a device drawn in red—a little star-shaped flower," known in England as the Scarlet Pimpernel. Guards who allowed this audacity to occur under their noses joined the aristocrats at the guillotine. And we soon witness yet another.
    We then jump to Dover, England, which is nearest to France, right across the strait. It is here that the refugees are brought, usually to The Fisherman's Rest, which, according to Orczy was a historical restaurant, but my searches did not turn up one currently by that name in Dover, so either it is gone, or was purely fictional. In any case, the landlord, Mr. Jellyband, is certainly on the side of the aristocrats, but there are some in England who are not, or prefer to mind their own business. Of course, England STILL has a monarchy, so one would expect them to side accordingly. They are awaiting some refugees now. It has begun to pour rain on this warm summer day.
    Presently, Lord Antony Dewhurst arrives. Among the other guests are a couple quiet strangers playing dominoes in the corner. Though no one pays attention to them, they should have. Lord Antony says that some friends from across the water will arrive, and also, the Day Dream, Sir Percy Blakeney's yacht, will be taking Lady Blakeney's brother, Armand back to France and the couple will arrive to see him off. The Comtesse de Tournay, her daughter Suzanne, and the young Vicomte de Tournay enter next, along with Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, who has escorted them across the pond. Everyone is cheerful, except for the two strangers in the corner, but when Sir Percy and his wife arrive, the Comtesse quickly wants to avoid her. She is shown to her room upstairs, and though commanding her daughter to come along, she does not. She and Lady Blakeney, formerly Marguerite St. Just, were close friends in school. Iciness sets in when she enters the inn, and the Comtesse insults her, which is shocking because Sir Percy is one of the wealthiest men in England and most highly regarded by everyone. Suzanne, however, cannot resist embracing her. And the reason the Comtesse holds Lady Blakeney in such contempt? Because it was she who turned in her cousin the Marquis de St. Cyr. He and his family were arrested, then executed.
    Meanwhile the two strangers, whom everyone has forgotten are gone. Well, one of them is, and the other is hiding under a bench.
    And of course, the Comtesse wants to thank the Scarlet Pimpernel for rescuing her and her children, and the promise that her husband will join them soon. She is told that no one, with the exception of a few trusted men, know his identity. In all there are twenty men who assist him in his work, and follow his orders without question.
    Here's a bit about Sir Percy. Still in his twenties, "tall, above average, even for an Englishman, broad-shouldered and massively built, he would have been called unusually good-looking, but for a certain lazy expression in his deep-set blue eyes, and that perpetual inane laugh which seemed to disfigure his strong, clearly-cut mouth."

   It was nearly a year ago now that Sir Percy Blakeney, Baronet, one of the richest men in England, leader of all the fashions, and intimate friend with the Prince of Wales, had astonished fashionable society in London and Bath by bringing home from one of his journeys abroad, a beautiful, fascinating, clever French wife. He, the sleepiest dullest, most British Britisher that had ever set a pretty woman yawning, had secured a brilliant matrimonial prize, as all chroniclers aver, there had been many competitors.

    Now, here's a bit on Lady Blakeney, formerly Marguerite St. Just, an actress of the Comédie Française.

   Scarcely eighteen, lavishly gifted with beauty and talent, chaperoned only by a young and devoted brother, she had soon gathered round her in her charming apartment in the Rue Richelieu, a coterie which was as brilliant as it was exclusive—exclusive, that is to say, only from one point of view. Marguerite St. Just was from principle and by conviction a republican—equality of birth was her motto—inequality of fortune was in her eyes a mere untoward accident, but the only inequality she admitted was that of talent. "Money and titles maybe hereditary," she would say, "but brains are not." And thus her charming salon was reserved for originality and intellect, for brilliance and wit, for clever men and talented women, and the entrance into it was soon looked upon in the worlds of intellect—which even in those days and in those troublous times found its pivot in Paris—as the seal to an artistic career.

    So why in the world did she marry Sir Percy? Not for his money. She loved him. But now, she misses no opportunity to mock his stupidity.
    A little scene takes place with the young Vicomte, who confronts Sir Percy and says he does not disagree with his mother's insult to his wife, and is ready to settle the matter in the usual way. Sir Percy seems to not understand. Finally, the frustrated young man says point blank that he is referring to a duel, but Sir Percy laughs it off.

   "A duel? La! Is that what he meant? Odd's fish! You are a bloodthirsty young ruffian. Do you want to make a hole in a law-abiding man? . . . As for me, I never fight duels." He added as he stretched his long, lazy legs out before him. "Demmed uncomfortable things, duels, ain't they, Tony?"

    Lady Blakeney later goes outside alone when the rain stops to be with her brother. Things are not quite as they seem. Marguerite really does love Sir Percy; it is he who has turned against her. She and her brother Armand took care of each other when they had no parents, and now he is returning to France and she feels so alone. Though always putting on a cheerful face and maintaining her self-control, Lady Blakeney is really very unhappy. It has begun to get dark when she is walking back to the inn, where she is confronted by a man. She quickly realizes it is a former friend of hers, who addresses her as "Citoyenne St. Just." It is Chauvelin, now an official agent, and here on business in London.
    He tells her he needs her help. He is determined to discover the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel, and wants her to spy for him.
    Meanwhile, Sir Andrew and Lord Antony are quietly talking after everyone has gone to bed at The Fisherman's Rest, unaware that there is a spy under the bench. They are soon kidnapped and held prisoner for a short time, while Chauvelin and his thugs steal papers that contain secret plans to remove the Vicomte from France.
    Soon Chauvelin's request to Marguerite becomes blackmail, because, to her horror, she is told that her beloved brother is working with the Scarlet Pimpernel, and has been caught. If she wants to save her brother's life, she must do what he demands.
    And here is when the suspense and excitement really begins. Marguerite now begins a period of pure hell, unable to speak of this to her husband, and torn between her brother and a man whom she secretly holds in reverence for his courage and daring deeds. Chauvelin confronts her at the opera, and knows she and her husband will attend Lord Grenville's ball, which follows. And so will the Scarlet Pimpernel. Lord Antony and Sir Andrew find themselves freed, and are destined to play a role in Chauvelin's plot, so Marguerite will also be forced to betray Sir Andrew.
    Just a couple more tidbits before I end this review, starting with, "Was the Scarlet Pimpernel a real person?" Yep, he sure was! Elizabeth Sparrow wrote a book entitled Phantom of the Guillotine, The Real Scarlet Pimpernel: Louis Bayard-Lewis Duval, 1769-1844. Though published in 2013, it is very rare and outrageously expensive at Amazon. But here's a review by Elena Yatzeck called The Real Scarlet Pimpernel. Here is another informative article by Lisa Chaplin called Who Was The Scarlet Pimpernel? She gets the title of the book wrong, calling it "Shadow of the Guillotine" but otherwise, it is an interesting review. Here is what the Good Readers at Goodreads think of the novel.
    I am fascinated by masters of disguise! This aspect of the story reminded me of The Day of the Jackal, a modern story of espionage concerning the assassination attempts on Charles de Gaulle in the early 1960s which got its inspiration from a true event. Author Frederick Forsyth kept me glued to the book as he turned the Jackal into one character after another. Amazing! And last, here is my Index Page for my book reviews concerning France, French authors and the French Revolution.
    And by the way, most people probably would guess, at this point, who the Scarlet Pimpernel really is, and he is not who he seems to be! And that is all I will say, so as not to give away any more surprises, because this is a book you must read, just for pure enjoyment. Below, the real Scarlet Pimpernel and three modern views of Dover, England, which was the landing place for the rescued French refugees, being the point where France and England are closest. The first, "White Cliffs seen from the Strait of Dover," then "The Port of Dover and the White Cliffs of Dover," and last, a "View of the White Cliffs of Dover from France," and you can see it wasn't a great distance.

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