Crossing into Danger — The Scarlet Pimpernel

The weariest night does end, but not on Marguerite's clock. She comes downstairs wild to start and finds Sir Andrew already back from the Admiralty Pier: the storm is at its fullest, the tide turning out, and neither the French packet nor a hired vessel can leave. They spend the day in a private sitting-room, taking food Sally brings and trying not to be seen. The wind finally settles into a north-westerly breeze, a godsend for France, yet the tide is then too far gone. Andrew charters the Foam Crest. At five they walk to the pier, she veiled, he still her lackey, and the white cliffs slide away in a clean sunset.

Calais looks like the Revolution even at the coast. Red caps, tricolour cockades, and a sly distrust sit on faces that used to laugh. English travellers pass as smugglers cheating a hated revenue, so the pair are sworn at and then ignored. Andrew leads her through muddy, unlit streets toward Cap Gris Nez and the Chat Gris, a wayside hole with broken chairs, a propped table, and Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité chalked on filthy walls. Brogard, in blouse and sabots, spits Sacrrrés Anglais, then lets them in because English purses are full. The soup is eatable. The manners are a free citizen's right to be rude.

Andrew asks after a tall Englishman. Brogard takes his time, then acts the fine clothes in pantomime: the man came today, in lace, not disguise. He ordered supper. He went out for a horse and cart. He will come back. Marguerite's joy almost shouts the house down; Andrew's hand on her arm saves her. Brogard has had enough questions from aristos. He bangs out. The plates stay on the table, waiting for a man who still dresses for a ball on the edge of a trap.