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i. The Aftermath of St. Cyr.

St. Cyr has an unmistakable impact on Marguerite’s character; the first part was entirely dedicated to that incident for a reason. It was her very own Pandora’s box, forcefully pulling her from her sheltered, distant perspective on the rising bloodshed and dragging her right into the action. The aftermath, however, was something I neglected to really mention in depth, which is foundational to how Marguerite’s arc during the events of the novel plays out.

By the time the events of the novel take place, it has been two years since the St. Cyr incident. Marguerite has told her husband, Sir Percy, of her involvement in St. Cyr's death—bar the extraneous circumstances—which has caused their marriage to quickly become strained. During this time, Marguerite’s guilt is also eating away at her, though she chooses to suppress it rather than confront it.

St. Cyr and the betrayal of her morals is at the crux of Marguerite’s moral conflict. Her fatalistic mindset dictates how she believes the fate of St. Cyr was ultimately decided and how much of an impact her denunciation actually had. St. Cyr was already going to die, she believed, his espionage would have been discovered eventually. Her denunciation couldn’t have had that much of an impact as she meant no harm, fate had just, in Orczy’s words, “merely had stepped in.” Marguerite is desperate to try and find some good in her actions, to feel that she had been justified in denouncing him that wasn’t just for revenge or personal gratification. That if there had been even a morsel of selflessness, she believes that her actions would have been justified and her guilt could dissipate.

I don’t believe that Marguerite’s motivations during St. Cyr were selfish, as so many people, including Percy, tend to believe (even Marguerite herself expresses this sentiment throughout the novel). In fact, I believe that her motivations were rooted in the antithesis: selflessness. It was ultimately rooted in her love for Armand and her want to right the wrong that had been committed and get justice for him. It’s a facet to the circumstances that I don’t think Percy can really comprehend, even after their reconciliation. His morality has always been very black and white, unable to see the grey area in-between—that, ultimately, is his biggest deficit as a character.

Their estrangement, while it was most directly caused by both of their prides, is also rooted in Marguerite and Percy’s inherently clashing morals. While Percy is quick to assume that Marguerite’s motivations were out of selfishness due to his black and white morality and blames her based on conjecture, Marguerite—despite knowing that she had ultimately denounced St. Cyr out of her love for Armand—believes that she cannot be innocent or exonerated of her moral crime because her actions outweigh her intent. Ultimately, St. Cyr is a “sin” that she believes she must “repent” for in order to be seen as “good” once more (in the Christian/Catholic moral paradigm sense).

ii. “Either-Or?”: A Moral Battleground.

The events of the novel, especially Chauvelin’s blackmail, are what kickstarted Marguerite’s metamorphosis throughout the novel. The entirety of her moral framework and philosophy was shattered, and for the first time, Marguerite had to ultimately confront her guilt from St. Cyr and morality in order to forgive herself.

Chauvelin, to me, has always been a foil to Marguerite moreso than he is to Percy. He is meant to personify the characteristics of the French Revolution during the Reign of Terror: ruthless, cunning, and remorseless. Orczy portrays him as being slyly cruel, and while I don’t entirely agree with how she portrays Chauvelin or the revolutionary characters in general, his morals and motivations are essentially Marguerite’s, but in many ways, they are more “twisted” and “corrupted.” Both Chauvelin and Marguerite have a strong sense of right and wrong, with a strong sense of justice and ultimately wanting to do what they believe is right. 

But how this sense of right and wrong and the want to serve justice manifests is where the two of them differ drastically:

Marguerite, at heart, is an idealist. She sees the inherent good in people, and sees the beauty in life despite everything that she has had to endure. Marguerite’s basic view of morality, despite being very naïve at times, is defined by her view that all people are worthy of dignity and deserving of justice, believing in and hoping for a better future despite how futile it may seem.

Chauvelin’s, on the other hand, is tethered to the disillusionment and presumed anger he feels towards the world. He deeply understands the common people and is resentful of the aristocracy, and this resentment manifests in his role as the overseer of executions in Paris. Chauvelin does believe that a better future is possible, but unlike Marguerite, he will go to drastic, potentially insidious means to achieve them; he wholeheartedly believes that France—the new France—is the key to that better future (not quite a utopia, but close enough), and he will do anything to preserve it. He purges the new republic of “traitors” because he believes that, even if he is ruthless and bloodthirsty, it is a necessary evil because the end justifies the means.

These small, yet crucial differences in morality between Marguerite and Chauvelin are first made clear during their reunion at the Fisherman’s Rest:

“‘Have you ever heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Citoyenne St. Just?’ asked Chauvelin, abruptly. ‘Heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel?’ she retorted with a long and merry laugh, ‘Faith, man! we talk of nothing else. . .’ (...) ‘Then, as you have heard of that enigmatical personage, citoyenne, you must also have guessed, and known, that the man who hides his identity under that strange pseudonym, is the most bitter enemy of our republic, of France . . .’ (...) ‘La! . . .’ she said, with a quaint little sigh, ‘I dare swear he is. . . . France has many bitter enemies these days.’ ‘But you, citoyenne, are a daughter of France, and should be ready to help her in a moment of deadly peril.’” –––     CH VIII,  THE ACCREDITED AGENT.

A sense of obligation is placed on Marguerite’s shoulders here, one that she has her reservations about: that she is endowed to her motherland despite now living across the channel, and that she should be France’s salvation in a time of uncertainty simply because it is her ‘duty.’ While we are never given a reason as to why Chauvelin came to Marguerite specifically (besides the “you go everywhere, you see everything” bit, but I don’t really see that as being a definitive reason), Orczy refers to them as having been friends back in Paris. Although the closeness of their relationship is not specified, it is implied that, at the very least, Marguerite and Chauvelin were well-liked by each other, as:

Marguerite was elated to see that Chauvelin was in England, and she was more vulnerable with him than she has been with anyone else in the novel thus far, not even her own brother.

Chauvelin’s reason for coming to Marguerite having two possibilities: he is close enough to her that he understands her philosophy and their closely aligned morals, or it was just out of convenience.

When Marguerite expresses her doubts, Chauvelin tells her this:

“‘Yes, you . . .’ he urged still more earnestly, whilst his thin fox-like face seemed suddenly to have grown impressive and full of dignity, ‘here, in England, citoyenne . . . you alone can help us. . . . (...) One of my duties here is to find out all about this League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, which has become a standing menace to France, since it is pledged to help our cursed aristocrats—traitors to their country, and enemies of the people—to escape from the just punishment which they deserve. You know as well as I do, citoyenne, that once they are over here, those French émigrés try to rouse public feeling against the Republic. . . . They are ready to join issue with any enemy bold enough to attack France. . . . (...) All the most strenuous efforts on the part of my spies have failed to discover who he is; whilst the others are the hands, he is the head, who beneath this strange anonymity calmly works at the destruction of France. (...) Find that man for me, citoyenne!’ he urged, ‘find him for France!’” –––     CH VIII,  THE ACCREDITED AGENT.

The quick switch between “find [him] for me” to “find him for France” is fascinating. It implies that there is a possible selfish motivation underlying Chauvelin’s constant reaffirmations of his loyalty to France and the revolution, and that it is this selfishness, not his want to bring the Pimpernel to justice, that is the ultimate driving force at play. Marguerite is able to see right through this charade; she has long been disillusioned with the revolution and the rampant violence in Paris, having lost her faith in it entirely as a vehicle for a better future. To her, the revolution cannot be doing any good if it is actively hurting and killing people in the process. She is all too familiar with the fragility of life and permanence of death, and she ultimately rejects both Chauvelin’s offer of espionage and his rationale that the end justifies the means. It comes as no surprise, then, that Chauvelin would end up using this against her.

“‘I am coming to him now, citoyenne. Among the papers there was a letter to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, written by your brother, St. Just.’ ‘Well? And?’ ‘That letter shows him to be not only in sympathy with the enemies of France, but actually a helper, if not a member, of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel.’ The blow had been struck at last. All along, Marguerite had been expecting it; she would not show fear, she was determined to seem unconcerned, flippant even. She wished, when the shock came, to be prepared for it, to have all her wits about her—those wits which had been nicknamed the keenest in Europe. Even now she did not flinch. She knew that Chauvelin had spoken the truth; the man was too earnest, too blindly devoted to the misguided cause he had at heart, too proud of his countrymen, of those makers of revolutions, to stoop to low, purposeless falsehoods. (...) ‘It does seem simple, doesn’t it?’ she said, with a final bitter attempt at flippancy, ‘when you want to kill a chicken . . . you take hold of it . . . then you wring its neck . . . it’s only the chicken who does not find it quite so simple. Now you hold a knife at my throat, and a hostage for my obedience. . . . You find it simple. . . . I don’t.’ ‘Nay, citoyenne, I offer you a chance of saving the brother you love from the consequences of his own folly.’” –––     CH X,  IN THE OPERA BOX.

Despite all of the time that has passed, Marguerite is still riddled with guilt. She—still shaken by her involvement in St. Cyr’s execution—does not want to endanger the life of any innocent person. She understands the weight of life and death better than anyone else in the novel, which makes Chauvelin’s ultimatum all the more devastating. Either way she chooses, she will be condemning someone to death, whether that be Armand or the Scarlet Pimpernel. There is no way for her to win, no way for her to be ‘morally superior’ to Chauvelin as she had previously thought herself to be during their reunion at the Fisherman’s Rest. In this sense, Marguerite is forced to stoop down to his level and ‘debase’ herself morally, which shatters her morale. She had spent the entirety of a year feeling remorseful for St. Cyr, hoping to find some way to repent and a path to forgiveness (and by extension, worsening her already existing martyr complex). Instead, she is being dragged further down, forced to do something so reprehensible in order to further, what Chauvelin believes is, rightful justice.

I believe that this was purposeful on Chauvelin’s part, especially since the novel implies that he also had a hand in getting Marguerite to denounce St. Cyr. Her faith in the revolution had been shattered with St. Cyr, and she could not take part or even believe in a concept that did not ultimately value life (and to some extent, free will). She would not agree to assist in discovering the Pimpernel’s identity unless something drastic were to force her hand, and for Marguerite, that would be both the loss of her autonomy and an ultimatum of life or death.

It is cruelly ironic, which Marguerite takes notice of. The chicken/livestock analogy she uses makes the power imbalance between them evident in a more tangible way than what was shown at the Fisherman’s Rest: Marguerite sees it as a purely insidious and unnecessary length taken in order to ensure her cooperation, while Chauvelin sees it as mercy, and in some ways, a utilitarian solution (livestock are usually killed out of necessity or mercy, after all). Marguerite consigns because she believes that she has no other choice, with her love for her brother nullifying any other rationale she had previously entertained.

Something that’s fascinating is that despite the blackmail, Chauvelin never lies to Marguerite during the opera box scene. He may withhold information, alter his wording, or tell half-truths, but he never outright lies. In fact, he is very matter-of-fact throughout the entirety of their conversation. What reason would he have to lie about Armand’s life being endangered? Verdicts of life and death are trivial to him, always subjective to whatever whims or underlying motivation he may be harboring. Marguerite knows the exact consequences of what her inaction would entail—she has lived through it before in her attempts to stop St. Cyr’s execution—and so when Chauvelin tells her that it “rests with [her] to redeem [Armand’s life],” she feels the weight of it immensely, and feels a responsibility not to repeat her original sin. During her antics at Lord Granville’s ball, she attempts to rationalize it, to try and buy into Chauvelin’s at times Machiavellian philosophy to ease her guilt at, essentially, doing the same thing to the Pimpernel that she had done with St. Cyr.

“Fate had willed it so. Marguerite, torn by the most terrible conflict heart of woman can ever know, had resigned herself to its decrees. But Armand must be saved at any cost; he, first of all, for he was her brother, had been mother, father, friend to her ever since she, a tiny babe, had lost both her parents. To think of Armand dying a traitor’s death on the guillotine was too horrible even to dwell upon—impossible, in fact. That could never be, never. . . . As for the stranger, the hero . . . well! there, let Fate decide. Marguerite would redeem her brother’s life at the hands of the relentless enemy, then let that cunning Scarlet Pimpernel extricate himself after that.” –––     CH XIV,  ONE O’CLOCK PRECISELY!

Here, Marguerite’s fatalism makes an appearance once again, and to an extent, I still call it into question. This is not to say that I reject the idea of her being a fatalist entirely, as she still holds some fatalistic beliefs, but I feel that labeling her solely as a fatalist is inadequate. She’s not unreasonable in wanting to save Armand over the Pimpernel. After all, the Pimpernel, despite idolizing him, is still just a stranger—and in some vein, a concept—to her, and the predicament she is in puts her in a position where she is, essentially, powerless and forced to make a decision that she knows will be detrimental either way.

Unlike with St. Cyr, however, when she still had some semblance of control over her decision, here, she is completely powerless, stripped of her autonomy and forced to act out of obligation. It is indicative of the conflict in her psyche: that she’s lost all faith in any kind of savior intervening, lost faith in other people generally, and she’s desperate to still find a way to save both Armand and the Pimpernel despite the odds being stacked against them. This is only further emphasized when Chauvelin rescinds his promise of sparing Armand, which only sends Marguerite into further spiraling into despair.

But despite all of this, Marguerite still clings to a little sliver of hope: that somehow, she will be able to use a discrepancy in Chauvelin’s plan in order to save both Armand and the Pimpernel. Her fatalism in this situation is fascinating because she decides to rebel against “fate,” and she chooses to not just resign herself to the “inevitable.” She chooses to go to Percy for help, and she later chooses to go to France in an effort to save his life. She believes that her suffering is worthy of enduring if she can repent for St. Cyr, and both save and be forgiven by Percy. Marguerite is fully ready to die for him—and on a grander scale, for love—if it came to that point (again, her martyr complex is pretty bad).

Marguerite grapples with a world that is not kind, with the fact that she cannot put her trust blindly in others and in her now shaken morality, and she must make sense of them. She believes the only person she can undeniably believe in is herself, given Percy’s rejection of her, Chauvelin’s betrayal, and the uncertainty of the Pimpernel’s fate. But she still harbors so much self-hatred, so much regret, and she is too stuck in the past to the point that it stagnates her. She wants to be and do good, but she believes that she has done too much “evil,” and that the only thing she can hope for now is forgiveness and, in turn, redemption.

iii. Autonomy and Accountability: The Bigger Picture.

When it comes to the nature of Marguerite’s actions throughout the narrative, there’s been a common pattern in adaptation to water down the severity of them—or rather, to lessen her hand in them in order to make her a more palpable, undeniably good character. However, removing the shakiness of Marguerite’s morality not only strips her of much of her depth, but also takes away her autonomy throughout the narrative.

When compared to Percy and Chauvelin, Marguerite’s moral compass is far more uncertain and muddy. Where Percy embodies the Kantian ideals of black and white morality and deontological ethics, Chauvelin is more Machiavellian—the ends justify the means, and the immoral becomes moral for the sake of a greater goal. Marguerite, however, doesn’t really fall neatly into one neat category when it comes to morals and ethics.

Marguerite’s biggest fear is becoming a bad person. Having grown up in a convent for a majority of her childhood and adolescence, it’s not out of the question that such rigid ideas and parameters of morality would have been internalized there. She wants to do good, and almost all of her actions are well-intentioned; with St. Cyr, she wanted justice, and with the blackmail and “either-or,” she wanted to save her brother. Most of all, she is selfless, and wants what’s best for other people, especially her loved ones. Loyalty to a fault is one of her worst flaws.

Still, this does not mean that she is incapable of doing bad things. Marguerite has a tendency to act on impulse and is an extremely emotional person, and in most situations, she is often more selfish than not, and there’s a streak of selfishness that underlies her actions, even if they are well-intentioned or motivated by selflessness. At times, she can be cruel, and while it’s not ideal and unsettles her on a mass level, she is not against violence if it ultimately helps her or benefits the greater good. There’s also her fatalistic mindset, and it seems that sometimes she makes no effort to grow as a person because she already believes that everything has been predetermined and change is futile. Unless the consequences of her actions are immediate, Marguerite tends to not think twice about what she’s doing, and it’s only much later after the fact that she begins to feel any kind of guilt or remorse.

When the story is being put through adaptation, however, Marguerite’s character always seems to fall flat in this aspect. It seems that most adaptations don’t know how exactly to handle these contradictions in her morality; they want Marguerite to be unequivocally aligned with Percy and the other “good” characters, however, they tend to view her character in the novel as not being palpable enough for audiences to properly root for and sympathize with. The changes to her character vary from adaptation to adaptation, though each one strips her of autonomy: in the 1982 film, Marguerite is framed for St. Cyr’s denunciation and her involvement in Chauvelin’s plan only further adds to her victimization throughout the first part of the film. In the musical, blackmail is evident from the beginning, as Chauvelin threatens to tell Percy unsavory details about her past if she does not cooperate both with St. Cyr and (partially) with his plan to capture the Pimpernel. Even the 1934 film, which I consider to be the most faithful of adaptations, makes small changes to Marguerite’s character that ultimately strip her of autonomy, such as making her be absent from the climax in Calais due to her being used as a bargaining chip by Chauvelin.

I find the musical’s depiction of Marguerite’s character to be the most egregious, given how it tries to squeeze both the conflict of the newly added love triangle and the main conflicts from the novel together:

CHAUVELIN.   I believe you and I have unfinished business. MARGUERITE.   Marie— Could you tell my brother that I’ll be with him shortly? CHAUVELIN.   Wasn’t there something you were going to deliver to me, lest I throw a wrench into this sudden romance of yours? (...) MARGUERITE.   Chauvelin, you promise me that the Marquis and his family will only be deported? No harm will come to them? CHAUVELIN.   No. [MARGUERITE hands the sealed note to CHAUVELIN.]

There’s a lot that bothers me about this version of the St. Cyr denunciation, excluding the fact that Chauvelin comically says “no” when Marguerite asks to make him seem even more like a cartoonish, irredeemable villain. Firstly, the motivation from the original novel is gone, and Wildhorn/Knighton make no effort to include any mentions of Armand possibly being thrashed by him. Secondly, it frames the exchange in a very grim light—that if Marguerite doesn’t give up St. Cyr’s location, then Chauvelin will tell Percy about her supposed promiscuity (for being in a relationship before they met, mind you). This continues later on in the musical as well, when Marguerite confides in Percy/the Pimpernel after Chauvelin gives her the “either-or?”:

MARGUERITE.   In France, I lived as a free woman… you understand? I met Chauvelin the day we stormed the Bastille. He became my lover. It was brief—it was mad, but it happened. (...) When Percy and I were about to be married, Chauvelin came to me: “How would you like your husband to know what sort of woman you are?” THE PIMPERNEL (PERCY).   And… would your husband have left you, if he knew about your past? MARGUERITE.   I was so afraid he would…

Not only does this firmly slot Marguerite into the victim role and exonerate her of all wrongdoing, but it also frames the entire conflict in a rather gross light. She has almost no autonomy in the entire musical; Chauvelin essentially slutshames her into compliance, and the musical puts Percy on a pedestal for the bare minimum in not shunning his wife, while her true motivations of wanting to rescue Armand from uncertain death are pushed to the background and are almost entirely forgotten about. Furthermore, Marguerite never gets to grow as a character, morality-wise and generally. The uncertainty of her motivations is gone, as are her ‘rougher’ character traits, and her depth is stripped in order for her to, in the words of lyricist and librettist Nan Knighton, “me[e]t the challenge of both men.” She is treated as an accessory and not as a character in her own right, her arc never getting room to breathe properly in an already constrained and messy story that is uninterested in exploring what made the novel so interesting and engaging to begin with.

The 1982 film is slightly better in that regard. Marguerite’s character is properly fleshed out, the conflict remains wanting to save Armand from his death, and she’s given plenty of time to shine. Still, this film exonerates her of any moral wrongdoing by having Chauvelin forge her name onto St. Cyr’s arrest warrant after she had refused to denounce him earlier in the film (“do you honestly believe I would send a man and his family to their deaths out of spite?”). Furthermore, both the ‘82 film and the musical are once again guilty of having Marguerite speak to the Pimpernel rather than to Percy. The Richmond chapter serves as the beginning of reconciliation for them both, however, it has another function of Marguerite finally confronting the consequences of her actions. She’s shaken and disturbed by what she’s done and the weight of it all, and all she wants now is to repent and to right her wrongs, and this scene is crucial for her growth throughout the last third of the novel.

“‘You do not trust me,’ she said passionately. ‘Oh, God! cannot you see that I am in deadly earnest? Man, man,’ she added, while, with her tiny hands she seized the young man suddenly by the shoulders, forcing him to look straight at her, ‘tell me, do I look like that vilest thing on earth—a woman who would betray her own husband?’ ‘God forbid, Lady Blakeney,’ said the young man at last, ‘that I should attribute such evil motives to you, but . . .’ (...) ‘Will you tell me,’ he asked resolutely, and looking searchingly into her blue eyes, ‘whose hand helped to guide M. Chauvelin to the knowledge which you say he possesses?’ ‘Mine,’ she said quietly, ‘I own it—I will not lie to you, for I wish you to trust me absolutely. But I had no idea—how could I have?—of the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel . . . and my brother’s safety was to be my prize if I succeeded.’” –––     CH XX,  THE FRIEND.

The moral aspect of Marguerite’s arc is ultimately her coming to terms with what she has done and moving on. The guilt of St. Cyr has loomed over her like a shadow for the entire novel, and her involvement in Chauvelin’s scheme and the reveal that Percy is the Pimpernel only seems to worsen her already shaken state. However, it’s her involvement in the confrontation at Père Blanchard’s hut at the climax of the novel that is her ‘redeeming’ good deed, and that despite everything, she triumphs as a hero in the end.

iv. Conclusion.

There is a common theme in The Scarlet Pimpernel to have characters, places, and concepts juxtaposed morally; Percy and Chauvelin, the aristocracy and the revolutionary mob, England and France. All of these fit snugly within the black and white labels of ‘good’ and ‘evil,’ which would no doubt become commonplace within the genre that Orczy helped to establish. To have a character that does not fit within either label comfortably in such a genre causes the story to shift, especially when said character is the protagonist. Marguerite has long been misunderstood even by her own creator, becoming dwindled down from the ‘cleverest woman in Europe’ to a mere damsel in distress, although her flanderization throughout the sequels is a whole other topic that deserves to be discussed in its own right. Many view her as being a helpless victim of her circumstances, while many also raise an eyebrow at her somewhat flimsy motivation and justification when it came to St. Cyr. Like all things, however, it is much more complicated than that.

Marguerite’s journey is ultimately one of deconstruction. Her metamorphosis lies in the collapse of her morality and reconceptualizing it in order to make sense of her place in the world and the meaning of life. The original sin of St. Cyr is one that haunts her throughout the narrative, is echoed in the events at Lord Grenville’s ball, and ultimately becomes the driving force of her redemption. While Marguerite is still self-sacrificing, it is reassuring to see a character who had all of their autonomy stripped from them at one point become the maker of their own fate, and with this newfound control and governance, she is able to find peace within it.

i. A Brief History of Orczy and Pimpernel.

Baroness Emma Orczy was born in Hungary in 1865 to a wealthy aristocratic family. When she was three years old, a peasant revolt on her family’s farm had caused them to flee Hungary and move around Europe. Orczy would move to England in 1885 when she was fifteen, where she would spend the rest of her life. She was a romantic and loved the old tales about chivalrous knights who rescued the innocent from insidious forces; this would later inspire her to create The Scarlet Pimpernel.

Orczy conceived the basic story of Pimpernel while on a trip to Paris with her husband, and was in no doubt inspired by her childhood and the revolt that had caused her family to free Hungary. In her autobiography, she writes:

“Thoughts and pictures crowded in upon my mind. With every step we took up the Boul’ Miche or the Rue École de Médecine, past the house where Marat was assassinated, through the Palais Royal where Camille Desmoulins had stood upon the table and inflamed his hearers with the fire of his own hatred and enthusiasm, and where Rouget de l’Isle had first sung his ‘Marseillaise’, and past every corner of this old Paris I seemed to be thrust back into a life which I had lived not so very long ago. (...) I did not then as much as think of him nor of Chauvelin nor of Marguerite, but the background was there: the pity for the victims of that terrible revolution, which had been brought about by injustice and tyranny and of which so many were the innocent sufferers. And during the last month of our stay in Paris the outline of my story began to take definite form in my mind. The shell only: the vital core was yet to come.”

Pimpernel’s publication history is a bit complicated. Originally, it was written to be published as a novel following Orczy’s debut of The Emperor’s Candlesticks, which was a commercial failure. No one would publish Pimpernel as a novel, however, so Orczy and her husband rewrote it to be a stage play starring her friends, Fred Terry and Julia Neilson, as Percy and Marguerite respectively. The stage play was highly successful, which led to Orczy rewriting Pimpernel again to be published as a novel, which took off.

The character of Sir Percy and the Pimpernel at the time was novel. Never before had there been a hero who had used a civilian identity in order to keep up appearances, and it would be this part of the novel that would go on to inspire other pulpy heroes. From Percy came Zorro, and from Zorro came Superman and Batman. From there, modern superheroes would be born, with Stan Lee calling Percy “the first character who could be called a superhero.”

ii. The Legacy of Pimpernel: What Went Wrong?

There are only a few stories where I can’t separate the artist’s heavy hand from the art itself. While their intent should be considered when analyzing their body of work, they usually inform the reader and add more context to some of the decisions rather than entirely dictate how the work is written or handled. Pimpernel, however, is one of these exceptions.

 I don’t doubt that the revolt Orczy experienced as a child played a role in inspiring Pimpernel. Being a romantic and all, I’m sure she wished there was someone like Percy to come and rescue her from those circumstances and she wrote the novel in Marguerite’s perspective in order to live out that fantasy. To clarify something, I don’t dislike Orczy because of her accomplishments; in fact, I actually somewhat admire them. Obviously the landscape for authors was shifting, and there had been several female authors who no longer had to publish their works under male pseudonyms, but for the work of a woman to not only be successful but to inspire a whole genre? That’s seriously impressive.

What I do take issue with, however, is a lot of her morals. Orczy is an aristocrat, and she held prejudices against lower class people. That is, unfortunately, everywhere in Pimpernel. Throughout the novel, there are several passages where Orczy focuses on the sorrows of the poor aristocrats who were tormented by those horrible revolutionaries, and dehumanizes the lower class with passages such as: “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.” Coupling that with the fact that the eponymous vigilante is literally some rich guy who only saves other rich people and views playing with human lives as a sport… well, it’s clear what she was trying to get at here.

What also irks me when discussing the books is the fact that no one seems to take this into account when talking about Pimpernel. With classical literature, critical thought is essential when engaging with the material, given the prejudices and questionable themes that would have been indicative of the time it was written in. Yet, with Pimpernel, no one seems to really care that there’s severe classism and that maybe the French characters should be given more grace. It’s something that genuinely scratches my head, and just because Pimpernel is something that may be enjoyable doesn’t mean it’s exempt from critique. A lot of fans need to get that into their heads.

When it was time to adapt Pimpernel for film and other media, there would have to be a lot of changes. For starters, the novel’s story is a mystery, with the main point of interest being who the Scarlet Pimpernel could possibly be. Percy is hardly in the novel, and when he is, all of his appearances serve as catalysts for key moments in Marguerite’s character arc, given that she is the novel’s protagonist. This would not work for film, as Percy and his adventures as the Pimpernel would become key marketing points to the general public. This was for a few reasons:

The first film adaptation of Pimpernel, released in 1934, would coincide with Zorro becoming increasingly more popular, with the third novel in the series being released just three years prior. It is likely that the author of Zorro, Johnston McCulley, read Pimpernel and became inspired to create the character.

The Great Depression had led to escapist fiction becoming popular during this era. Universal monsters, historical epics, and most importantly, swashbuckling romances, were highly successful. This most likely led to Pimpernel including more swashbuckling themes in its adaptations.

Baroness Orczy would write several sequels following the original novel’s success, all of which focused on Percy rather than Marguerite. Coupling this in with the previous point, making Percy have a larger role would be a no-brainer decision.

So, Percy would be given a larger role, with Marguerite being treated as merely his love interest, who would always be put into a predicament and would have to be rescued. The 1934 film actually does a pretty good job at balancing Percy and Marguerite’s perspectives and stories, and while it has some flaws, they’re not egregious enough that it ruins the entire film or narrative it’s trying to tell. The real problems come in the 1982 film adaptation.

With Percy’s descendents like Superman and Batman coming into their own and superhero comics as a whole becoming more solidified, Pimpernel is put into an interesting position. I feel like most adaptations try to overcompensate for the fact that Pimpernel is not written like the typical superhero story, that the audience will be disinterested if the story were to be adapted as it was written. Thus, we enter what I like to consider the birth of the modern Pimpernel story-structure: there's not enough action and flashiness? Focus more on the grandiosity of Percy's adventures. There needs to be a fight between the hero and the villain? Include a swordfight. We need more romance and to make things more raunchy? Completely mess with Percy and Marguerite’s relationship to the point where nothing makes sense anymore.

The 1982 film adaptation establishes a lot of these plot points, which are later seen in other adaptations, such as the 1997 Broadway musical and its various iterations. The most egregious of these more ‘modern’ adaptations is the 1999 BBC minseries, which completely turns Percy into a Batman-esque grimdark caricature of his novel counterpart who is not witty in any way, but is instead a complete asshole. Marguerite is in a position where she is somehow no longer the main character of her own novel, and her role is getting smaller and smaller to the point where it may just be better off to remove her entirely. We’re at the point where the plot has truly been lost, and I believe that Pimpernel in the modern day cannot be adapted again until directors and writers step back and look at the novel solely for what it is, and not what it has become.

iii. On My Portrayal.

So, where does that leave my portrayal? I consider it to be a mix of my own development and the bare bones of the novel. When you separate Pimpernel the original novel from the rest of the series it works well as a standalone, which is what it should have been. While I may take some plot points and characters from the sequels, they are not canon to my portrayal of Marguerite in any way. Also, I have not read all of them nor do I intend to.

Some general things to note:

I bump the timeline of the novel up from happening in 1792 to 1793. This is for a couple of reasons: 1) Most scholars agree that the Reign of Terror began in September 1793, and many of the historical details that Orczy includes in the novel align more closely to 1793 than 1792, such as Chauvelin being a part of the Revolutionary Tribunal and Committee of Public Safety. 2) Tensions were higher in ‘93; Louis XVI was executed in January, Marat had been killed by Charlotte Corday in July, and the war of the first coalition with Austria and Prussia was becoming tenser given the death of the former king. It seemed natural to me that the Pimpernel to be just another thorn in the revolutionary government’s side amidst this chaos.

While the events from the beginning of the novel to the midpoint remain the same, I have chosen to rewrite what happens after Marguerite goes to France with Sir Andrew. Orczy’s antisemitism is extremely palpable during the novel’s climax, and is another part of her beliefs that I absolutely abhor. It may be indicative of the time, but that’s not an excuse. Instead, Percy disguises himself as a fisherman who is familiar with the area and offers to take Chauvelin and his men to the hut. At the climax, Chauvelin is too preoccupied by keeping Marguerite from meddling in his plans for him to notice Percy freeing the hostages, not that he’s somehow too bigoted to see through Percy’s shitty disguise.

I mainly write Marguerite between the ages of 19-25. Orczy’s continuity tends to get more disjointed the more novels she puts out, leading to a lot of retconning throughout. I only follow what is established in the original novel: Marguerite became famous at 17-18, Armand is her older brother, not younger, and she is not related to the real life Louis Antoine de Saint-Just.

She was not and has never been romantically involved with Chauvelin. I don’t know why adaptations are so set on making Pimpernel revolve around some kind of love triangle, but it’s getting old. She views Chauvelin as an older brother figure, and even goes as far as to consider him family. This has all been developed in conjunction with my good friend @covrroucer.

I don’t consider Marguerite being an actress to be a crucial part of her character. It is thematically relevant, yes, but I don’t think it’s necessary for her to be an actress in every single verse, though she will always have the desire to pursue something artistic. In modern verses, for example, I tend to write Marguerite as being a violinist.

I view Pimpernel to be a mystery first and foremost and a superhero story second. There is an air of intrigue to how the Pimpernel is discussed by characters in the novel, where he is treated as a phantom or spectre who haunts the prisons and guillotine in Paris. In my writing, I enjoy emphasizing this intrigue and the impact of the Pimpernel’s actions on an outsider looking in (Marguerite) instead of throwing her right into the action. She is still unaware of everything that Percy does as the Pimpernel or how he manages to come out relatively unscathed every time, and she is learning just as much as any reader of the novel would.

Marguerite is not a passive player in her story, either. She is incredibly intelligent and observant, and is easily able to notice certain characteristics of people and play off of them. This, combined with her natural charm, made her the obvious choice when Chauvelin was deciding who to enlist to help him capture the Scarlet Pimpernel. Still, her involvement in Chauvelin’s plot causes her immense distress, in part due to her already pre-existing guilt from her involvement in the Marquis de St. Cyr’s death.

What Marguerite wants, most of all, is to be a good person. Her part in St. Cyr’s death has caused her to believe that she is a horrible person and that she must repent for what she has done. Overall, she is quite emotionally distressed during the novel and in general. Between her brother being held hostage and her being blackmailed, she’s going through a lot of horrible things in her life and has a hard time believing she can really come back from any of it. Her emotional state in the aftermath of the novel is quite fragile, and she is prone to lashing out and pushing others away. This is her primary motivator throughout the novel and afterwards, as she grapples with this being her new “normal” while also trying to come into her own and find her footing in life. She is still very unsure of her identity and is trying to figure out who she truly is after having lived under the scrutiny and romanticization of the public eye since her teenage years. The motif of metamorphosis resonates heavily with Marguerite here.

Despite this, Marguerite is kind and believes that people are inherently good in spite of what she’s done or what she believes. While she may be naive in this sense, she is both an empathetic and selfless person (despite her tendency to be selfish), and will put her life on the line for the sake of others. Still, she has been manipulated and used by several people in her life, and so she is wary of opening up and making deeper connections with people. She can be quite blunt and crass in her language, as well, and despite being able to keep an outward composure, she is a very emotional person, and feels and expresses them in heavy extremes.

Moreover, she wants love and companionship more than anything else, and while she does not hate Percy for being the Pimpernel, she is resentful of him for his lack of honesty and communication following their reconciliation. She is confused and hurt, wanting to help him but unsure of how to, and she comes to believe that he does not care for her. This amount of secrecy, even if it is for her own good, does not sit right with her, and so she is reckless and tries to uncover more in spite of her best interest and his protestations due to her stubbornness. On that note, I do not write Marguerite as being a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. After the events of the novel, she wants no part in it.

I write Marguerite as a survivor. It's something that is taken from my own experiences and heavily impacts how she navigates romantic and sexual relationships. Her hypersexuality is a traumatic response, and her boundaries are important to respect. Please keep this in mind.

The Scarlet Pimpernel novel exists in-universe. It was written by Marguerite’s brother, Armand St. Just, originally as a memoir before being turned into a semi-fictional account of events that was published under a pseudonym. While it’s not really an active part of any portrayal, it’s still something to note. Marguerite is extremely hurt by the fact that Armand would use her recollection of events and turn it into something made for profit without her knowledge, and it causes a rift between them for a while.

Some outside works I take inspiration from are: In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust, The Bloody Chamber and other works by Angela Carter, The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead by Tom Stoppard, Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, Revolutionary Girl Utena and the magical girl genre in general.

i. Courtship/Pre-Marriage.

The courtship phase is the murkiest when it comes to Marguerite and Percy’s dynamic. Their relationship is seen as a befuddling and outlandish match, with the intentions for marriage being particularly questioned on Marguerite’s end. Percy, seen as one of the stupidest men in England, had managed to win the hand of “the cleverest in Europe,” with no one possibly believing that Marguerite could have married him for anything other than his immense wealth and good looks. While her closest friends and relatives know that this could not possibly be the case, the question still arises as to why she had decided to marry Percy when she had plenty of other suitors in Paris, most of which were far more intelligent than Percy seemingly was. 

Orczy also seems wholly uninterested in giving the reader any kind of background on how Marguerite and Percy met, with the only concrete exposition being this blurb delivered by Marguerite during the Richmond chapter:

“Of the shortest, Sir Percy? Faith! how it must have altered! Was it three years ago or four that you saw me for one hour in Paris, on your way to the East? When you came back two years later you had not forgotten me.” –––     CH XVI,  RICHMOND.

Orczy tries to convey a ‘love at first sight’ type meeting between the two, and while it certainly aligns with the fact that their marriage is portrayed as being a sudden and surprising event, not much else is given besides that. Still, even with the limited backstory we have, it’s no wonder Percy and Marguerite were attracted to one another.

Marguerite grew up in an environment that was both isolated and heavily sheltered, being raised only by a caring yet overprotective brother and the restrictiveness of the Paris convent before being abruptly thrust into the public spotlight when she was still a teenager. Not only has she never been able to come into herself and forge her own identity, but she has also never been able to create a meaningful and deep connection with anyone besides her family and only friend, Suzanne de Tournay. Coupling this with her constant intake of fantastical love stories lead to her developing this unrealistic, idealized perception of love, with her naivety often leaving her vulnerable to the wrong type of people. As time passes, however, she becomes increasingly more disillusioned with this perspective on love after several heartbreaks, eventually believing that love is ultimately not something that is in the cards for her.

When Percy Blakeney enters her life, however, everything changes. Not only is he handsome and charming, but he seems to be the first person to actually want to understand her as a person and not just on a superficial level. While on a surface level they may not have much in common, they are more alike than not. Having grown up without a mother and a neglectful father, being isolated from other children his age due to his constant traveling around Europe, it’s no wonder that Percy understood her desire for companionship and love more than anyone else had before.

“He seemed to worship me with a curious intensity of concentrated passion, which went straight to my heart. (…) But it has always seemed to me that it must be heavenly to be loved blindly, passionately, wholly … worshipped, in fact—and the very fact that Percy was slow and stupid was an attraction for me, as I thought he would love me all the more (…) I thought that a fool would worship, and think of nothing else. And I was ready to respond, Armand; I would have allowed myself to be worshipped, and given infinite tenderness in return…” –––     CH VII,  THE SECRET ORCHARD.

There’s a lot of conversation around whether or not Marguerite loved Percy prior to their marriage. The novel seems to suggest that she only married him for ego, though that is quickly contradicted later on. To be perfectly frank, I believe that Marguerite had loved Percy from the beginning. Given everything that is established beforehand, I find it to be impossible for her to have married him if she did not truly love him. She is someone who values trust in a relationship more than anything else, and she would not have been the type to bend her knee for someone she had just met, let alone didn’t care for. Furthermore, Marguerite is not a selfish or egotistical person. She’s prideful and stubborn, yes, but she believes in the inherent good of people and often puts the desires and safety of other people before her own. While I don’t believe that she wasn’t slightly amused when she first met Percy, or that she wasn’t wary of pursuing a serious relationship with him, it’s simply a matter of, when she finally had someone who understood and truly loved her, she clung to him and fell for him as well.

That’s not to say that I believe that her intentions when marrying Percy were entirely rooted in her love or weren’t self-serving in some way. By the time Percy would have returned from India in 1791, tensions were rising in Paris and revolutionaries were becoming more violent, and with the invention of the guillotine in April of the following year, the Reign of Terror was almost imminent at this point. Disgusted by the bloodshed and desperate for a way out, Marguerite saw Percy as her escape, and when he finally asked to marry her, it was obvious that she would accept.

But Marguerite and Percy are still vastly different people, and their superficial differences are ultimately what cause many of the problems in their relationship. There’s already a fundamental level of misunderstanding between the two because of Percy’s place in the aristocracy and Marguerite growing up lower class, coupled with their differing views on the revolution as a whole. Additionally, both of them idealized the other, particularly Marguerite with Percy, and while they did attempt to understand each other, their preconceived notions and perceptions took precedence. This made their estrangement all the more heartbreaking and intense, as “the shrine, which contained [their] one illusion, lay shattered to earth at [their] feet.”

Furthermore, both Marguerite and Percy are secretive people, with Percy hiding that he’s the Pimpernel and Marguerite hiding her involvement in St. Cyr’s denunciation and execution. They both want to place their faith in each other and love each other without qualms, but their lack of communication prior to their marriage is their ultimate detriment.

A point of contention I have with some adaptations is that they tend to shorten the timeline of their relationship, implying that it was simply the shortness of their courtship that caused their misunderstandings and estrangement instead of it being a deep-rooted issue that neither of them wanted to address. The most egregious example is the Wildhorn musical, where Marguerite and Percy have only known each other for six weeks before they decided to marry:

MARGUERITE. But now, I share with you my own storybook ending. Six weeks ago I met a tall and handsome “prince,” and tonight he sweeps me away to England to be married. Sir Percival Blakeney! He is handsome, yes?

There’s… a lot that I take issue with here. While I’ll spare most of my thoughts for brevity’s sake, the shortening of their relationship in the musical not only undermines the significance of their relationship to one another, but also reframes their entire estrangement. There’s really no way that anyone can know someone in a meaningful way in six weeks, let alone cause an entire marital estrangement or even lead to marriage in the first place. Coupling this with the many narrative changes (Marguerite being blackmailed by Chauvelin for St. Cyr, the story centering on a ‘love triangle’ that goes nowhere), it frames the estrangement as simply being a misunderstanding based on trivial differences or secrets rather than a deep connection that had many fundamental flaws, causing the relationship to feel somewhat flimsy and for the emotional catharsis at the end when they eventually reconcile to not be as impactful as it is in the novel. It is simply something that, like most things in the musical, is misunderstood and reframed to fit a narrative that not only undermines Marguerite’s character, but Percy’s as well.

ii. Estrangement.

Marguerite and Percy’s estrangement begins on their wedding night, when Percy finds out about Marguerite’s part in the Marquis de St. Cyr’s denunciation (for my interpretation on Marguerite’s role in the entire St. Cyr debacle, see here). Both of them are too stubborn and prideful to come to an understanding, causing an intense marital strain which lasts for nearly a year before it is eventually resolved.

Some things to note when it comes to the estrangement:

While Marguerite was not entirely guilty, nor were her intentions malicious in any way when it came to St. Cyr, she was not entirely innocent either. She still played an active role in his denunciation and later death, with the guilt as a result of her involvement becoming a motivating factor in her decision to follow Percy to Calais at the climax of the novel.

Marguerite is, to a point, impulsive, brash, a bit thoughtless, and naïve. She had denounced St. Cyr without taking the possible consequences into consideration. She wanted justice to be served for what happened to Armand, and while there had been some prior thought, her naïvety ultimately led her to believe that something as dire as death would not have happened if she had decided to denounce St. Cyr (as well as making it easier for the authorities to manipulate her into giving up the information they wanted).

There seems to be this consensus in some places that because Marguerite and Percy’s love for one another is so intense, that the estrangement was simply a one-off occurrence that would not have happened in any other circumstance. However, even without St. Cyr, Marguerite and Percy’s marital problems would catch up with one another. Their lack of communication, as well as their previously mentioned deep-rooted issues, would have reared their ugly head eventually, and there would have been some marital strain at the very least because of them. St. Cyr was simply an easy catalyst for a more intense marital strain to occur.

“‘I entreated you for an explanation of those same noisome popular rumours. If that same memory does not, even now, play me a trick, I fancy that you refused me all explanation then, and demanded of my love a humiliating allegiance it was not prepared to give.’ ‘I wished to test your love for me, and it did not bear the test. You used to tell me that you drew the very breath of life but for me, and for love of me.’ ‘And to probe that love, you demanded that I should forfeit mine honour, (...) I asked for no explanation—I waited for one, not doubting—only hoping. Had you spoken but one word, from you I would have accepted any explanation and believed it. But you left me without a word, beyond a bald confession of the actual horrible facts; proudly you returned to your brother’s house, and left me alone . . .’” –––     CH XVI,  RICHMOND.

The hesitance to tell Percy of both what St. Cyr had done to Armand and the circumstances surrounding her denunciation is ultimately Marguerite’s downfall during the confrontation. She had gone out of her way to purposefully not tell him of either during their courtship, knowing that he would, at best, severely disapprove of her involvement, but wouldn’t say much of it again. If it had just been that, however, I don’t believe that Marguerite would have become so defensive and ultimately left Percy on their wedding night.

This is indicative of a much larger aforementioned issue, however. Marguerite’s intense reaction is caused by Percy’s seemingly resolute stance that she had denounced St. Cyr maliciously. Her belief that he would believe her word no matter what not only harkens back to the idealized view of him that she had harbored during their courtship, but of the fact that she still cannot fully trust him with the truth. Marguerite and Percy treaded a fine line of wanting to appease the other, while still developing a deep connection. By doing so, however, they avoided discussing any uncomfortable topics in their relationship, even if they were necessary conversations that should have happened prior to their marriage. Additionally, their differing views on the revolution are particularly of note here, as Percy’s vehement disgust with the bloodshed in Paris was also an influencing factor in Marguerite’s hesitance to tell him about St. Cyr.

Ultimately, this causes a small crisis for the already emotionally compromised Marguerite. She, too, experiences her own betrayal; she had built up her walls for years, and Percy had the first person to truly see her for who she is and not as persona she had cultivated for years. Now, she begins to question the entirety of their relationship, now not knowing if Percy’s affections were truly genuine or not. So, she does not bother telling him the circumstances, because there would simply be no point.

While it can be easy to shift blame solely onto either Marguerite or Percy, a key part of the estrangement is that both of them are ultimately at fault. Percy made no effort to try and ask Marguerite directly for the truth, but neither did she, and throughout their estrangement, they were both too prideful to even speak to one another, let alone ask for an explanation and try to get closure of some kind. How Marguerite copes with the estrangement, however, is vastly different to how Percy does, and even with both of them at fault, Marguerite was the one who carried more emotional baggage.

“She tried even at times to curb the sarcastic, bitter thoughts of him, which made her—in spite of herself—say cruel, insulting things, which she vaguely hoped would wound him. (...) Sir Percy seemed to have laid aside his love for her, as he would an ill-fitting glove. She tried to rouse him by sharpening her ready wit against his dull intellect; endeavoured to excite his jealousy, if she could not rouse his love; tried to goad him to self-assertion, but all in vain. He remained the same, always passive, drawling, sleepy, always courteous, invariably a gentleman.” –––     CH VIII,  THE ACCREDITED AGENT.

The absence of the love in their relationship throughout the course of a year ultimately causes Marguerite to become disillusioned with her marriage, and overtime, she becomes cynical and bitter. Whereas Percy is able to control his temper and remain stoic, Marguerite is unable to do so. She is upset that he has decided to disregard the love they shared over hearsay, and that he refuses to listen to her or believe in her innocence—despite the fact that she still refuses to tell him the whole truth of what happened. In retaliation against Percy’s stoicism, Marguerite lashes out at him, believing that if she cannot make him love her again, that she could be able to dig under his skin. She wants him to feel the same anger that she feels; that if he would show any sign of irritation and stoop to her level, that they would be able to see eye to eye once again. Marguerite’s constant goading also serves as another way for her to safeguard her own feelings; it would be less painful to lash out and ultimately push Percy away than it would be for her to confront her own conflicted, albeit still loving, feelings for him.

Furthermore, Marguerite is entirely alone for most of the estrangement. While Percy has his league and his duty as the Pimpernel to keep himself emotionally steady, Marguerite has no one. With no true friends or confidants in England, she is always slightly off-kilter, filled with resentment and, at times, envy towards her husband. He remained oblivious to her emotional turmoil, and she to his. There were times when they would come close to opening up to one another, especially when most of their emotional baggage manifested in physical intimacy, but they never made any meaningful steps towards reconciliation.

What Marguerite wants, most of all, is to return to the past. She wants to rekindle the love that they shared during their courtship, but is unsure of how to properly reconcile with him without confronting the deeper issues that have plagued their relationship from the beginning. Conflicted and emotionally vulnerable, it would take an extremely drastic event to take place for her to finally decide to make an effort to reconcile with Percy.

iii. Richmond.

The events of the novel begin a year into Marguerite and Percy’s estrangement, and the prospect of their conflict ever being resolved appears hopeless. They remain cold to one another, being distant and unaffectionate, until the events that occur at Lord Grenville’s ball. Marguerite, having been blackmailed by her old friend, Citizen Chauvelin, to gather intel on the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel, decides to have a change of heart, and she is the one to approach Percy in the garden about making amends and bridging the gap between them.

“‘Sir Percy.’  ‘Your servant, Madame.’ ‘Is it possible that love can die?’ she said with sudden, unreasoning vehemence. ‘Methought that the passion which you once felt for me would outlast the span of human life. Is there nothing left of that love, Percy . . . which might help you . . . to bridge over that sad estrangement?’” –––     CH XVI,  RICHMOND.

Two aspects in this scene that are almost always changed in adaptations are that:

Marguerite does not directly initiate the reconciliation and open up the conversation.

Marguerite speaks to Percy as the Pimpernel, rather than to Percy himself.

While it can be argued that these changes offer more in terms of dramatics, they diminish the impact of the initial reconciliation both throughout the chapter and later on in the novel. Marguerite approaching Percy in the garden, despite being somewhat caused by her guilty conscience, is the first time both he and the reader is allowed to see her truly be vulnerable, with her finally telling him the entirety of what happened leading up to the denunciation of St. Cyr. It is the first time she feels that she can express herself freely in front of Percy, as when he remains cold and indifferent to her, she breaks down into tears and begs him to listen to her.

Although it was a difficult feat, it was ultimately necessary that it was Marguerite who made the first steps towards reconciliation and rebuilding the trust in their relationship. After all, the catalyst of their estrangement had not only been the fact that she had been involved in St. Cyr’s denunciation, but that she had actively withheld the truth from him for over a year by the time the events of the novel occur. Her unwillingness to be open and honest with him, coupled with her efforts to rouse his anger and push him away, ultimately worsened the rift between them. Here, Marguerite is able to put aside her pride, and her willingness to open up and to tell him everything makes it evident that her want to “atone” for her mistakes is genuine and that, despite the estrangement and her conflicted feelings, she still loves him.

“‘Percy! I entreat you!’ she whispered, ‘can we not bury the past?’ ‘Pardon me, Madame, but I understood you to say that your desire was to dwell in it.’” –––     CH XVI,  RICHMOND.

The crux of the estrangement, and how Marguerite and Percy continue on with their lives vastly differ, lies in how they view the events from the previous year. While Percy is able to somewhat move on, given his preoccupation with being the Scarlet Pimpernel, Marguerite is unable to. She’s far too guilt ridden over her involvement in St. Cyr’s death, and believes the first step to atoning for this “grave sin” is to be honest with the person she believes to have wronged most because of it. Furthermore, she is still far too absorbed in the idealized version of Percy that she had fallen in love with during their courtship, clinging to those memories in the hopes that, beneath his coldness and disdain, the love was still there.

Armand’s predicament, while a component of their conversation, is not at the forefront of the Richmond chapter. What it serves as is closure, relieving the tension and misunderstanding between them in order to open the door for possible reconciliation in the future. The two still do not fully understand each other; Marguerite feels that she cannot tell Percy about the danger Armand is in without telling him the truth of St. Cyr because of how he views her character, and he cannot tell her that he is the Pimpernel because he cannot fully trust her. While Marguerite only hoped to find out that he still loved her, Percy wanted an explanation for her involvement in St. Cyr’s death. Even when Marguerite does tell him the truth, Percy still remains cold to her, and it’s only when she breaks down into tears that he realizes that she is telling the truth and the gravity of the situation.

When it is the Pimpernel that Marguerite speaks with instead of Percy, this aspect of closure and reconciliation is lost. Instead, the focus is shifted to Armand and Marguerite’s blackmail, with her telling the Pimpernel what happened with St. Cyr and begging him to save Armand. My main grievance with this change lies in the fact that it makes Marguerite’s actions in the latter half of the novel lose the weight that they had when she confided in Percy. Marguerite was so struck and horrified by the realization that Percy was the Pimpernel because they had just begun to make amends with one another; despite Percy still not fully overcoming his own pride, he believed her and agreed to help Armand. Realizing that she had essentially sent Percy to his death during the ball devastates her, and her guilt from both St. Cyr’s death and Percy’s possible—if not imminent by that point—death is what leads her to following him to France. Furthermore, Marguerite speaking to the Pimpernel almost always absolves her of the guilt from St. Cyr’s denunciation, painting her as a victim who was maliciously deceived and not directly involved at all (1982 film) or as a victim whose sexuality and supposed promiscuity was weaponized against her (Wildhorn musical). It implies that in order for Marguerite to remain a sympathetic character and for Percy to believe her, that she cannot possibly have done any kind of moral wrongdoing of her own volition, shifting the blame solely onto Percy for causing the estrangement.

iv. Reconciliation.

The road to reconciliation is not easy for either Marguerite or Percy. They must put their pride aside and finally come to an understanding, as well as having to reconcile with the fact that the people they fell in love with weren’t really who they were in the first place. Upon the discovery that Percy was the Scarlet Pimpernel, Marguerite springs into action, heading to France herself in an attempt to save him from his seemingly imminent capture and subsequent death.

Her fierce devotion comes out in full force here. Marguerite would do anything for Percy, even if it meant either dying for or with him. Hardly anything else matters to her besides Armand’s safety, and with her now knowing that he is the Scarlet Pimpernel, all she truly wants is for them to be happy and love each other freely again, without fear or having to withhold things from each other. She sacrifices her own comfort and basic necessities in order to follow him, and by the time they reunite at the novel’s end, she is too weak to even walk on her own. Through this, the immensity of Marguerite’s devotion becomes clear, and the question of whether she loved Percy or not is given a clear answer: yes, she did and always has.

i. Face.

In her introductory chapter, Marguerite is described as being at the height of her beauty, with her face in particular at its “most dazzling stage.” Marguerite's face is round and heart-shaped, giving the rest of her face a soft-like edge. Her nose is described as being “straight, [and] chiseled,” with a round, up-turned tip, making it appear to be slightly curved. Her cheekbones are slightly higher up, and her chin is round and pointed, adding a hint of length to her face. Her skin is blemish free, with only light freckles and a few moles for texture. Straight, slightly downturned eyebrows compliment the rest of her soft features, with a small forehead to coincide with the currently shifting beauty standards of the period. There is always a slightly rosy-tint to her cheeks, even without rogue, adding to the overall softness of her features.

Her most notable features, however, are her eyes and her lips. Marguerite's eyes are a warm green color, often mistaken for hazel in some lightings. Her eyes are wide and round (doe eyes), with long, thick doll-like eyelashes, and they are often a particularly expressive part of her face, as well as being slightly inset in her skull and prominent eyelids. When her face is resting, however, her eyes have a particularly sad look to them, giving her a perpetually melancholic expression. They also, however, give her face an innocent quality to it, and her eyes often have a particularly charming or beguiling effect on people.

Marguerite's lips are slightly narrow and heart-shaped, with her bottom lip being noticeably thicker than her top lip; her lips, in general, were bigger than the beauty standards of the time. They're naturally a rosy, pinkish color, enhanced by the adding of rogue to darken them to a deeper, more reddish tone. The corners of her mouth are downturned, and her smile is noted as being particularly warm and sweet (though, I'm not a big fan of Orczy constantly describing her lips as childlike. That's a grown woman, Emma).

Overall, Marguerite is described as being exceptionally beautiful. It is something that draws people to her, and contributes to her popularity both in her home country as an actress and in England following her marriage. My primary visual references (Amy Bodnar, Christine Andreas, Margaret Qualley, and Merle Oberon) are the actresses who I believe fit this description best.

ii. Hair.

Marguerite's hair is something she tends to hyperfocus on, making sure it's flawless at all times. It is a striking dark, nearly black, brown-auburn color, with reddish undertones that are noticeably visible in the sun. Her natural hair texture falls somewhere between 2c and 3a, with defined ringlet curls especially at her ends. Her hair is thick and long, and when let down, falls down to her waist, causing it to be somewhat difficult to maintain and care for at certain times.

When she is in public, Marguerite often wears her hair in the fashionable styles of the time, particularly the hedgehog style. She prefers to style her natural hair rather than wear wigs or utilize hairpieces of any kind, especially as more natural hairstyles come into fashion during the revolution and the emergence of the early neoclassical/Directoire style (see: her long ponytail with the black bow during the opera and Lord Grenville's ball). Her hair is rarely powdered, though she always makes sure to let her natural hair color shine through on the occasions when she does wear powder in her hair. In this regard, Marguerite is quite progressive by the time's standards, embracing the evolving trends in her home country whilst living in the more stiff and rigid English society following her marriage.

iii. Physique.

Marguerite is described as being regal and statuesque, her posture and her form being reminiscent of a marble statue. She is said to be taller than average, which, given the average height of the time (5'0" or 160 cm), I've placed her at around 5'5" (165 cm). Going against the beauty standard of the time, which preferred plumper features, Marguerite is on the thinner side (ectomorph), given the scarcity of food she experienced during her childhood and adolescence, and can be considered underweight for her height because of this factor during her prime developmental years.

Still, she takes pride in her figure, with a medium-sized bust and hips, giving her a slight hourglass figure. Given the undergarments and corsetry of the period, which were intended to create a tapering effect on the waist, the bust was supported due to compression; this only served to further accentuate Marguerite's figure.

iv. Miscellaneous (Makeup + Modern era).

Makeup of the era consisted of face creams, rogue, and mouches or beauty patches. Face cream was used to lighten the face, making the skin nearly completely white while the rogue added a warm, rosy hue to the face. Marguerite scarcely used face cream during her time as an actress, and dropped it completely once she left for England. Rogue, on the other hand, was a particular favorite of hers. As mentioned before, she used a hefty amount of rogue to accentuate her cheeks and lips, giving her face a slightly flushed look to it. Mouches were only used to accentuate her already existing moles, though she would get fun and quirky with them during more formal events.

In modern aus not much changes in physicality; the real difference lies in styling and makeup. While Marguerite would more often wear her hair down than not, with short, whispy bangs to compliment her face. She does not straighten her hair often, however, on the rare occasions she does she'll often wear it in a braid or with hair accessories of some kind.

Growing up, Marguerite has always been enamored by fairytales and old wives' tales. The idea of some grand hero—a prince—coming to save the innocent from their suffering and misfortune has always been a prominent subject of her daydreams, and it places within her a desire to do good and change the world for the better.

The death of the Marquis de St. Cyr, and her part in it, shakes her to her core. With immense guilt and regret eating away at her, it is ultimately what galvanizes her to finally take action. Recalling her love of fairytales and the grand hero that had always loomed over her life, Marguerite finally decides that now, as the bloodshed in Paris reaches an all-time high, is the time to take action. Her first venture into vigilantism leads her to infiltrating the Temple Prison by disguising as a guard, rescuing the former Comte de Beauvoir and his family from their execution and booking them safe passage out of France. With the high publicization of the family's rescue, it is here where the Scarlet Pimpernel is born.

At first, the Pimpernel starts off as a wholly selfless endeavor. With her older brother, Armand, aiding her missions from thereon out, Marguerite begins to hope that, when the bloodshed in Paris finally ends, that she will have done enough to be forgiven and redeemed. It is easy for her to keep her identity concealed, swapping between the Comédie-Française's leading lady, the Scarlet Pimpernel, and the girl beneath the mask at ease. To her, the Pimpernel is but another front for her to put on—a costume that is easily removed once it is no longer needed. Perhaps it's careless of her to think such a way, but it is the only way she has ever known.

Not all is bliss in this new way of life, however. Marguerite's friendship with Armand Chauvelin, now head of the revolutionary tribunal who had also once been an older brother figure to her, has decayed significantly since the death of the Marquis de St. Cyr. It is not made any better by her romance with Sir Percy Blakeney, a wealthy English baronet that she has quickly fallen in love with and is soon to wed. Still, Marguerite tries not to think of it too much. For once in her life, she is happy, hopeful that true change has been made and that this is enough penance for her to be redeemed.

This happiness is short-lived, with Percy discovering her involvement in St. Cyr's death on their wedding night and subsequent argument and estrangement, Marguerite begins to spiral. Believing that she has nothing to lose now, the Pimpernel soon becomes an outlet for self-destruction. She becomes more impulsive and careless, purposefully getting into situations where she will be at high risk of being caught, allowing herself to be shot at and hit during chases. She tries to cover up and adorn the mask of Lady Blakeney in England, but Percy can see right through her. Armand becomes increasingly concerned about her troubling behavior, but Marguerite hardly cares. The pain is worth it, to her, if she is ultimately doing good.

The fall of 1793 is when the consequences of her carelessness finally catch up to her. Following a massive argument with Armand in Dover, she later learns of his arrest through a hastily written letter. A reunion with Chauvelin and his blackmailing of Percy, ultimately leads her to reconsider everything: did she truly become the Pimpernel for selfless reasons? Was it always for the greater good, or was it just for her ego—so she could finally become the 'prince' she always dreamed of as a girl? What was the point in trying to reach some unattainable ideal of perfection and moral goodness, anyway?

CURRENTLY .. Marguerite is grappling with the events of the novel and her role as the Pimpernel. With her relationship with Percy needing to be mended and Armand being put out of commission for a while, she is ultimately rediscovering what heroism and goodness mean to her, and whether all of this was worth it in the first place. Primarily focuses on morality, identity, and if the ends justify the means. Open to interactions in this verse, but plotting is heavily encouraged. Notes and other/misc details below.

Margot does not have a 'league' like Percy does. The Pimpernel is a two-man operation between her and Armand, and even then she prefers to go solo in a lot of cases. While this does help in a lot of cases, it is also a hinderance in others, as there aren't as many opportunities for her to distract guards or other authority figures without revealing herself. Others, like Suzanne, also assist her later on, however, a formal 'league of the Scarlet Pimpernel' is never formed.

While your muse will not know that Margot is the Pimpernel unless plotted out beforehand, I do encourage suspicion in our interactions! Margot is a horrible liar, especially when she has to come up with excuses on the spot. While she won't necessarily fold, she'll almost certainly look guiltier than she did before she started covering her trail.

Following the end of the Reign of Terror, Marguerite feels... lost. While for Percy in canonical verses, his restlessness is rooted in his desire for adventure, Margot's is moreso rooted in regret. She didn't do enough, she should have tried harder, and is she still going to hell after all of this? While these doubts and regrets permeate throughout her entire time as the Pimpernel, they are particularly palpable here.

i. And We All Have So Many Faces...: Marguerite, as Described by Others.

Before talking directly about how Marguerite views her identity in her own narrative, something that is important to me when discussing this topic is how other characters within the narrative perceive her. The perception of Marguerite by other characters in the novel exemplifies a broader pattern seen throughout the novel—that the implicit biases that many characters have for Marguerite define who she is, particularly during the early sections of the narrative.

When we are first introduced to Marguerite in the novel, we are thrown in media res in her story. Through other characters’ discussions and exposition given, we learn that Marguerite was originally a Frenchwoman, a greatly beloved and acclaimed actress—the lead actress of the national theatre, the Comédie-Française, at that—and, most importantly, she was a Republican who supported the ideals of the revolution, though her exact involvement up in the revolution is left ambiguous. Her first mention from the Comtesse de Tournay during one of the Fisherman’s Rest chapters is particularly of note:

“Ah, yes,” added the Comtesse, whilst a look of haughty disdain and intense bitterness shot through her melancholy eyes. “There was that woman, Marguerite St. Just, for instance. She denounced the Marquis de St. Cyr and all his family to the awful tribunal of the Terror.” “Marguerite St. Just?” said Lord Antony, as he shot a quick and apprehensive glance across at Sir Andrew. “Marguerite St. Just?—Surely . . .” “Yes!” replied the Comtesse, “surely you know her. She was a leading actress of the Comédie Française, and she married an Englishman lately. You must know her—” “Know her?” said Lord Antony. “Know Lady Blakeney—the most fashionable woman in London—the wife of the richest man in England? Of course, we all know Lady Blakeney.” “She was a school-fellow of mine at the convent in Paris,” interposed Suzanne, “and we came over to England together to learn your language. I was very fond of Marguerite, and I cannot believe that she ever did anything so wicked.” –––     CH IV,  THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL.

Already, before the reader has even met her, we are given three drastically different perceptions of Marguerite’s character, all of which influences these characters’ interactions with her later on in the novel, as well as their overall dispositions and beliefs throughout the novel. That being:

The Comtesse de Tournay’s disgust for the revolution and its associates, so much so that in this same chapter she wishes that “while [she] remain[s] in this beautiful country, [she] may never meet Marguerite St. Just.” Later on, when Marguerite enters the Fisherman’s Rest, the Comtesse is outwardly aggressive to her and shuns her before leaving. 

Sir Andrew, despite being one of Sir Percy’s closest friends, still does not know Marguerite very well. His perception and opinion of her at this point in time is based only on the word of others, and while he does not antagonize Marguerite, he does cast doubt over her and her intentions with the Pimpernel specifically, exemplified when she asks for his help later on in the novel.

Suzanne, being Marguerite’s closest friend and having known her the longest, is the only one who believes in her innocence among the group present at the Fisherman’s Rest. Seeing the good in her friend and still holding onto so much love for her, she overlooks Marguerite’s more unpleasant qualities and, having refused to entertain that her close friend could have possibly done something as horrible as sending an entire family to their deaths, paints an unrealistically flawless picture of her.

Out of the three, Sir Andrew’s is the most accurate picture of Marguerite that is presented to the reader at this point in time, however, many crucial details are still left out and the picture that is painted is fuzzy at best. Even when she enters the narrative and fully becomes the novel’s protagonist, the biases of other characters still hold precedence over the reader’s perception of Marguerite; she is gawked at by theatre-goers during the opera, ‘admired’ at Lord Grenville’s ball, and is met with aggression at both the Fisherman’s Rest at the beginning of the novel and Calais upon her return to France at the climax. Everywhere she goes she is heavily scrutinized, and especially during the ball, it becomes suffocating.

The character whose biases ultimately hold the most weight in the narrative is Percy’s, given that the entire foundation of their marriage is built upon the perceived “betrayal” on both sides that began their estrangement. Percy believes that, up until the climax of the novel, Marguerite denounced the Marquis de St. Cyr for malicious reasons. Unaware of the context or the manipulation she endured during the ordeal, he is cold and distant to her, in part due to his dual identity as the Scarlet Pimpernel and the hurt he feels from having been “duped” by her.

“With what object, I pray you, Madame?” he asked coldly.“I do not understand you.”“Yet ’tis simple enough,” he said with sudden bitterness, which seemed literally to surge through his words, though he was making visible efforts to suppress it, “I humbly put the question to you, for my slow wits are unable to grasp the cause of this, your ladyship’s sudden new mood. Is it that you have the taste to renew the devilish sport which you played so successfully last year? Do you wish to see me once more a love-sick suppliant at your feet, so that you might again have the pleasure of kicking me aside, like a troublesome lap-dog?” –––     CH XVI,  RICHMOND.

This line in particular exemplifies the ramifications of their estrangement and the “betrayal” from St. Cyr on their relationship. Percy and Marguerite have both become so distant and cruel to each other that he no longer believes that the love she harbors for him is real, and perhaps he even doubts if it was ever real at all, describing their love as “the shrine, which contained my one illusion, [which] lay shattered to earth at [his] feet.” That’s not to say that Percy no longer loves her—Orczy emphasizes that his love for her never waned despite the estrangement—however, the two of them have become so distant and have misunderstood each other so much that he simply does not know what else to believe.

The “Richmond” chapter in general falls in a really interesting spot in the narrative; the reader has followed Marguerite and has gotten to know her more intimately, however, she is still concealing many of her true feelings from the reader. Percy’s direct confrontation, while discomforting and distressing, is ultimately what breaks the carefully crafted performance that she has cultivated up until this point, forcing her to confront all of her suppressed emotions head on. Here, she is forced to be wholly honest with both him and the reader for the first time, opening the path for her to grow and begin to reclaim her identity.

ii. ... The Real Self Often Erases: Marguerite St. Just versus Lady Blakeney.

Marguerite’s entrance marks the start of the main narrative within the novel; in quick succession, her relationships with Percy and her brother Armand are established, Chauvelin blackmails her, and eventually, she makes the decision to go to France on her own to rescue Percy before Chauvelin can capture him. Throughout all of this, the novel makes a clear distinction between the two ‘faces’ of Marguerite’s identity—or, in other words, clearly defines a split between who she is as Marguerite St. Just and who she is as Lady Blakeney. This split, however, has far deeper roots than just being a role she performs for the London public, going back to her days as an actress at the Comédie-Française.

Little is given about Marguerite’s early life, though the novel does reveal a few things: following her parents’ death, her older brother, Armand, was her only (pseudo) parental figure, she grew up and was educated in a convent before gaining prominence as an actress when she was “scarcely eighteen.”

There are two things of note here:

Marguerite’s age, being extremely young when she was first thrust into the spotlight and the public eye. 

The quick succession of events—how it seems that right after she left the convent, she finds almost instantaneous success as an actress.

Not only was Marguerite still a teenager when she gained success as an actress, but the suddenness of it all must have made the experience incredibly disorienting at first. After all, before this she had a relatively sheltered life, and she was not equipped with the necessary tools to handle all of the newfound attention, admiration, and objectification she would receive and endure, particularly from men, due to her being both a pretty and clever girl. These factors would be what initially causes this split in identity between the normal girl and the actress—Marguerite St. Just and “the cleverest woman in Europe.”

“There was a something — an elusiveness — which seemed like an integral part of her personality; a something which attracted irresistibly both men and women from every class and walk of life — rich man, poor man, aristocrat and plebeian. She seemed to live a life that was aloof, indifferent to the flattery of her admirers, disdaining their offers of friendship, of love and of luxury: but she allowed them to dance attendance upon her and suffered the attentions of all comers with unfailing courtesy and good humour. She never refused entrance to her house to an artist or an intellectual; she showed no personal feelings towards any of her visitors, with the result that many came anxious to prove the depths of this mysterious personality. Many also strayed away from her orbit after a time, for she was not effusive enough towards the “butterflies” who made a habit of fluttering round any personage of note; she certainly never counted the good-will of those who had only great names or well-filled purses to recommend them. She became a law unto herself and there the matter rested.” –––     THE LIFE AND EXPLOITS OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL.

The wording of this particular passage from a fictional biography Baroness Orczy wrote following the original novel’s publication is particularly of note when it comes to how the public perceived the young and newly famous Marguerite St. Just. The performance had yet to be perfected, and there were still several cracks which broke the illusion of her being this perfect, untouchable being. While her aloofness and mystique were enchanting at first, they would soon grow old. Marguerite harbors a deep desire to be liked, and her early days with fame and her experiences with the fickleness of the public eye cause her to learn that, if she does not give the public what they want, they will ultimately turn on her. So, she continues to perform, having internalized that a sudden change in public opinion would spell almost certain social death for her. Eventually, as the years go on, what is a performance and what is not becomes indistinguishable, and soon, her solitude becomes her sanctuary.

“Once outside the noisy coffee-room, alone in the dimly-lighted passage, Marguerite Blakeney seemed to breathe more freely. She heaved a deep sigh, like one who had long been oppressed with the heavy weight of constant self-control, and she allowed a few tears to fall unheeded down her cheeks.” –––     CH VII,  THE SECRET ORCHARD.

Something of note is that despite Marguerite being this beloved and supposedly influential figure in London society, she isn’t shown to have many companions or friends. She reunites briefly with her childhood friend, Suzanne, before the Comtesse de Tournay splits them apart (though they do have a chapter together later on in the novel). This is really her only interaction with any confidant throughout the entire novel, and her loneliness and isolation from the wider public in London is indicative of something larger; in wanting to be liked and accepted in the public eye, she is unable to make any meaningful connections with people within those circles. She is objectified due to her beauty, treated as something inhuman—as both “the cleverest woman in Europe” and as Lady Blakeney—and scrutinized when she is not ‘perfect,’ and she is only sought out when she is useful to those around her. Later on, she grows to be distrustful of others and their intentions, firmly believing that the only person she can rely on is herself.

All of this has ramifications on her character arc throughout the novel, as it is one of the many factors that initially prevent her from ‘maturing’ and growing as a person. Marguerite has never been given the room to grow into her own person; she feels lost and detached from herself, and she still exhibits many ‘childish’ character traits that she has been unable to grow out of because she has spent most of her life in the public eye. As Armand notes, she was “a girl in all but name,” and her stagnation in maturity goes hand in hand with her lack of autonomy throughout the novel, most notably with St. Cyr and Chauvelin’s blackmail.

“Now Lady Blakeney had suddenly ceased to exist. It was Marguerite St. Just who was there only: Marguerite St. Just who had passed her childhood, her early youth, in the protecting arms of her brother Armand. She had forgotten everything else—her rank, her dignity, her secret enthusiasms—everything save that Armand stood in peril of his life, and that there, not twenty feet away from her, in the small boudoir which was quite deserted, in the very hands of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, might be the talisman which would save her brother’s life.” –––     CH. XII, THE SCRAP OF PAPER.

One of the aspects of the novel that is rarely discussed, particularly when it comes to identity within the novel, is this idea of “bridging the gap” between two different worlds. Orczy makes a clear distinction throughout the novel between France and Britain—the proper and heroic British juxtaposed by the bloodthirsty and ruthless French—giving the reader a clear hero and enemy with complimenting, yet opposing morals, to follow throughout the narrative. Percy and Chauvelin almost perfectly embody these archetypes that Orczy has defined, laying the foundation for their cat and mouse chase throughout the original novel and its subsequent sequels.

Marguerite, on the other hand, is another story. A common thread throughout most of her character traits is that she does not fit within these singular, strictly defined archetypes, and that is no different here. She’s in this “in-between” area between the French and the English. This aspect of her identity as a character serves as a source of conflict—both internal and external—and puts her in an interesting, yet important place within the narrative; serving as the bridge between the British and the French. She’s a republican and maintains her belief in the philosophical foundation of the French Revolution as a Frenchwoman, while her disgust with the bloodshed in Paris and her immense pride seem to align more with her English self. Her heritage in France and her current residence in England is the most explicit presentation of this aspect of her character, with her sailing back to France during the climax being her ‘bridging the gap’ between these two different parts of her identity.

“Marguerite had listened to Chauvelin’s impassioned speech without uttering a word, scarce making a movement, hardly daring to breathe. She had told him before that this mysterious hero of romance was the talk of the smart set to which she belonged; already, before this, her heart and her imagination had been stirred by the thought of the brave man, who, unknown to fame, had rescued hundreds of lives from a terrible, often an unmerciful fate.  (...) Then, when first she heard of this band of young English enthusiasts, who, for sheer love of their fellow-men, dragged women and children, old and young men, from a horrible death, her heart had glowed with pride for them, and now, as Chauvelin spoke, her very soul went out to the gallant and mysterious leader of the reckless little band, who risked his life daily, who gave it freely and without ostentation, for the sake of humanity. (...)  her thoughts had gone wandering in search of the mysterious hero! Ah! there was a man she might have loved, had he come her way: everything in him appealed to her romantic imagination; his personality, his strength, his bravery, the loyalty of those who served under him in the same noble cause, and, above all, that anonymity which crowned him, as if with a halo of romantic glory.” –––     CH VIII, THE ACCREDITED AGENT.

Orczy portrays Marguerite as being wholly in love with the Pimpernel, and while I believe some of that to be true, it’s more complicated than that. Marguerite’s idolization of the Pimpernel stems from what he represents—heroism and nobility, of course, but most importantly, freedom. Disillusioned with her life in England, she clings to the Pimpernel as escapism, and in a sense, she not only idolizes but also envies him for his freedom and how his anonymity and mystique allows him to remain untouched by the public eye that has eaten her alive. When the illusion of the Pimpernel as a perfect hero is eventually shattered and he is revealed to be Percy, she has nothing left to believe in. With her only solace gone, she is forced to confront reality.

The novel ends with the reconciliation of Percy and Marguerite and the mending of their relationship, however, the climax of the novel is also Marguerite’s reconciliation with her own identity. Throughout the novel, she is portrayed as being a fatalist, and her fatalism heavily hinders both her ability to grow and her course of action, especially during the ball. Marguerite does not change because she does not want to change, but because she believes that she cannot due to fate’s predetermination—she is simply a pawn in the grand scheme of life. In the end, however, she ultimately ends up taking her fate into her own hands, taking back the autonomy—and identity—she had been stripped of for a majority of the novel. No longer is she defined solely by public opinion, nor does she live solely for society any longer. Finally, she is able to breathe freely.

iii. Closing Words.

In the many years following the novel’s original publication, adaptations have adjusted Marguerite’s character and her role in the narrative for better or for worse. While the 1934 film keeps her character mostly intact, both the 1982 film and the 1997 musical effectively strip her of her identity and autonomy, discarding her desperation to save her brother for a cheap love triangle between her, Percy, and Chauvelin. When it comes to the musical specifically, Marguerite is a character defined entirely by her sexuality. She is objectified and treated as a purely sexual being and is forced into uncomfortable situations for the sake of fanservice, all of which is a disservice to the Marguerite of the novel. 

A response written by musical’s lyricist, Nan Knighton, however, is particularly noteworthy: 

“She is the most ambiguous character in the show. In fact, she is changing throughout. She is an actress – already a chameleon who can transform herself into any role. She was an active revolutionary who now questions it all. She was anti-aristocracy and finds herself falling in love with a British aristocrat. When Percy stops trusting her and becomes cold and foppish, she questions her very love for him [in "When I Look At You”] … Marguerite’s changing feelings continue throughout to the point that she revs herself up to go back to France and fight for her brother. She is full of disguise and confusion and ultimately desperation about Armand. She is often forced to masquerade herself and sometimes she just does this by instinct. Probably the most essential ambiguity to Marguerite is the fact that both she and Chauvelin remember who she used to be … There is still a wantonness and a wildness deep inside her, but she is growing up becoming a different person via being loved by Percy and sensing the goodness and bravery in his heart. …The bottom line is that she is a very confused woman whom we watch grow and change into the Marguerite who stands beside Percy at the end of the show..”

In the end, Marguerite’s arc throughout the narrative is about reclaiming her identity and autonomy. Having been stripped of both things at a young age, the journey is tumultuous and far from pretty. However, she ultimately changes for the better, allowing herself to grow into maturity as both sides of the split—Marguerite St. Just and Lady Blakeney—are able to co-exist, no longer defined by the perceptions of respectable society.