even a memory is paradise,

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.

“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 . . .” (...) “No mistake is possible, Monsieur,” rejoined the Comtesse, coldly. “Marguerite St. Just’s brother is a noted republican. There was some talk of a family feud between him and my cousin, the Marquis de St. Cyr. The St. Justs’ are quite plebeian, and the republican government employs many spies. I assure you there is no mistake. . . . You had not heard this story?” “Faith, Madame, I did hear some vague rumours of it, but in England no one would credit it. . . . Sir Percy Blakeney, her husband, is a very wealthy man, of high social position, the intimate friend of the Prince of Wales . . . and Lady Blakeney leads both fashion and society in London.” “That may be, Monsieur, and we shall, of course, lead a very quiet life in England, but I pray God that while I remain in this beautiful country, I may never meet Marguerite St. Just.” –––     CH IV,  THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL.

There’s a lot to unpack in this quote, but the main idea (and what the reader gathers) is that 1.) Marguerite denounced the Marquis de St. Cyr and sent him and his family to their deaths and 2.) It’s become somewhat of the hottest “scandal” for lack of a better term, and many — in particular, the Comtesse de Tournay — don’t take the rumors very lightly. Although Marguerite has become well respected and the pivot of Social London, there is an air of disdain that comes with her name, which is only reinforced when she meets the Comtesse face to face, who immediately rebuffs her and refuses Marguerite to greet her childhood best friend, Suzanne.

“Hoity-toity, citizeness,” she said gaily, “what fly stings you, pray?” “We are in England now, Madame,” rejoined the Comtesse, coldly, “and I am at liberty to forbid my daughter to touch your hand in friendship.” –––     CH V,  MARGUERITE.

Wherever Marguerite goes, her reputation precedes her — given the cold shoulder by most of the people around her, including her own husband, for this wicked deed she has committed. Despite tensions being high throughout revolutionary France at the time because of the ongoing Reign of Terror, Marguerite’s involvement in the St. Cyrs’ execution is treated as being particularly wicked and insidious by people like the Comtesse. So, why did Marguerite denounce St. Cyr? what could he have possibly done that caused her to denounce him and send him to his death? Well, her motives for St. Cyr's denunciation are much more personal than that of many others in a time such as the Reign of Terror.

The reason Marguerite had denounced St. Cyr — which is hinted at in an earlier chapter but not elaborated on until later — is because he had her brother, Armand, beaten “within an inch of his life.” For what reason? For falling in love with St. Cyr’s daughter, Angèle, which he had deemed unacceptable given the St. Just’s middle class background. While such incidents, as Orczy puts it, “was of almost daily occurrence in France,” Marguerite was horrified and appalled by Armand’s beating by St. Cyr’s men, and swears that she will have her vengeance on the Marquis. This motive behind Marguerite’s actions is something that also tends to get lost in adaptation; in the 1934 film, it is one of St. Cyr’s sons who wants to marry Marguerite instead of Armand being in love with Angèle, to which the Marquis has her imprisoned in St. Lazare in retaliation. In the 1982 film, her motive remains the same, only she never acts on it and is resolved of her guilt; instead it’s Chauvelin who puts her name on the arrest warrant out of spite. In the 1999 miniseries, St. Cyr is responsible for the death of her parents, while the musical’s reasoning is that Marguerite had been blackmailed and slutshamed by Chauvelin in order for him to get the note denouncing St. Cyr.

While adaptations have their reason for adjusting Marguerite’s motive in St. Cyr’s denunciation (or completely absolving her of the responsibility), what many of these adaptations fail to realize is that, by changing her motivation in the St. Cyr incident, they actually tend to 1.) undermine the relationship between Marguerite and Armand and 2.) entirely miss the mark on a crucial aspect of Marguerite’s character, which is how she fiercely loves — particularly those close to her.

“I was tricked into doing this thing, by men who knew how to play upon my love for an only brother, and my desire for revenge. Was it unnatural?” (...) “Listen to the tale, Sir Percy,” she said, and her voice now was low, sweet, infinitely tender. “Armand was all in all to me! We had no parents, and brought one another up. He was my little father, and I, his tiny mother; we loved one another so. Then one day—do you mind me, Sir Percy? the Marquis de St. Cyr had my brother Armand thrashed—thrashed by his lacqueys—that brother whom I loved better than all the world! And his offence? That he, a plebeian, had dared to love the daughter of the aristocrat; for that he was waylaid and thrashed . . . thrashed like a dog within an inch of his life! Oh, how I suffered! his humiliation had eaten into my very soul! When the opportunity occurred, and I was able to take my revenge, I took it. But I only thought to bring that proud marquis to trouble and humiliation. He plotted with Austria against his own country. Chance gave me knowledge of this; I spoke of it, but I did not know—how could I guess?—they trapped and duped me. When I realised what I had done, it was too late.” –––     CH XVI,  RICHMOND.

The bond between Marguerite and Armand is incredibly close, a direct result of their parents dying when they were still children. While their birth order tends to be swapped in later sequels, this fact remains the same throughout. Armand is Marguerite’s only family, who raised her and was her guardian until she married Percy. They have one of, if not the closest, bond in the novel, which brings up the second aspect; how Marguerite loves people.

To say that Marguerite loves very intensely would just be touching the surface. When it comes to the people she loves, she would do anything for them, including risking/endangering her life. While she never vocalizes it in the novel much, this aspect is seen in almost every important relationship she has, especially with Armand, though they’ve grown somewhat distant when the events of the novel begin. So for Marguerite to discover that Armand, whom she loves more than anything else, was beaten almost to death for what she believes is an unjustified reason, her anger and subsequent want for revenge against St. Cyr is justified. While it could be argued that her reasoning for executing St. Cyr was selfish, the intent behind it was not selfish in the slightest, coming from a place of love and care for her family. Given how Marguerite’s first mention in the novel is explicitly about her involvement in St. Cyr’s execution, we know that Marguerite eventually triumphed in getting her revenge.

The St. Cyr incident is not a simple black and white issue, however, and we soon learn that Marguerite had no intention of sending the Marquis to his death. In fact, when she discovered that he and his family were to be executed, her reaction contradicts what we have been told about Marguerite thus far: she was horrified.

Marguerite, impulsive, thoughtless, not calculating the purport of her words, still smarting under the terrible insult her brother had suffered at the Marquis’ hands, happened to hear—amongst her own coterie—that the St. Cyrs were in treasonable correspondence with Austria, hoping to obtain the Emperor’s support to quell the growing revolution in their own country In those days one denunciation was sufficient: Marguerite’s few thoughtless words anent the Marquis de St. Cyr bore fruit within twenty-four hours. He was arrested. His papers were searched: letters from the Austrian Emperor, promising to send troops against the Paris populace, were found in his desk. He was arraigned for treason against the nation, and sent to the guillotine, whilst his family, his wife and his sons, shared this awful fate. Marguerite, horrified at the terrible consequences of her own thoughtlessness, was powerless to save the Marquis: her own coterie, the leaders of the revolutionary movement, all proclaimed her as a heroine: and when she married Sir Percy Blakeney, she did not perhaps altogether realise how severely he would look upon the sin, which she had so inadvertently committed, and which still lay heavily upon her soul. –––     CH XVI,  RICHMOND.

Orczy makes it a point to emphasize that Marguerite’s intention was not to send St. Cyr to his death, but instead to humiliate him, which she saw as “just” revenge for nearly killing Armand. Still, with Marguerite swearing vengeance on St. Cyr, the fact that she is horrified that he is to be executed — and even goes as far as attempting to stop the execution from happening — is extremely telling about her moral judgement, beliefs, and her morality overall.

When it comes to the morality regarding Marguerite’s involvement in St. Cyr’s arrest and execution, there are two things to keep in mind:

Marguerite’s intentions weren’t good, but they weren’t malicious either.

Marguerite's impulsiveness, brashness, and naïvety (to a point) play a major role in her decision to denounce St. Cyr.

While Marguerite’s life prior to marrying Percy is never explored in detail, the fact that a staunch Republican like her, who has actively supported the revolution, would be horrified by St. Cyr’s death brings up a question: why? If Marguerite wanted revenge against St. Cyr so badly, why wouldn’t she be happy that he would be sent to the guillotine? Well, that’s the thing: the death of St. Cyr and her direct involvement in it goes against everything Marguerite stands for morally.

While the alternative to execution (humiliating him and soiling his reputation) isn’t ideal, Marguerite did not denounce St. Cyr with the intention to send him to his death. In fact, she had no intention of sharing his involvement with Austria with anyone really, let alone revolutionary officials, with it being revealed that Marguerite was tricked into denouncing St. Cyr by using her love for Armand and her desire for revenge against her. While this does indicate that Marguerite is “morally” innocent when it comes to St. Cyr’s death, I don’t believe that’s the case. Despite ultimately being manipulated into sharing St. Cyr’s involvement with Austria, it was still Marguerite’s choice to denounce him at the end of the day, giving her an active part in St. Cyr’s denouncement and eventual execution. If this aspect of the St. Cyr incident were to be ditched — which is what most adaptations tend to opt to — it downplays and devalues a large majority of Marguerite’s motivation and actions in the latter half of the novel, where she is desperately trying to “atone” for her sin.

Then there is Marguerite’s impulsive nature, which ultimately got her into this situation to begin with. I think it’s important to note that although Marguerite is clever and sophisticated, she is incredibly impulsive, brash, and to a point, naïve, which all lead back to her upbringing; she was sheltered in a convent for a majority of her formative years, and when she left the convent, she was under the guardianship of Armand. She hasn’t had enough opportunities to really confront more difficult situations, let alone an entire revolution in the years leading up to its reign of terror. As a result, Marguerite tends to act before she can really consider the consequences of her actions, something which comes to haunt her later on.

Along with this, Marguerite is definitely someone who cracks when put under enough pressure, i.e the opera box chapter, which will be more thoroughly dived into later on. Given what the denunciation of St. Cyr meant for the revolution, for her, and for the people pressuring her into telling them about St. Cyr’s correspondence with Austria, it’s likely to believe that she simply didn’t have the time to contemplate the decision thoroughly enough. For her, the denunciation meant that St. Cyr would finally see “justice” (he would be humiliated) for Armand’s beating, and that her desire for revenge would be satisfied. While outside forces did play a major role in her decision, Marguerite had denounced St. Cyr in the heat of the moment and did not have the time to properly weigh the morality of her decision, and did not take the consequences into consideration. She saw the opportunity to seek revenge and she seized it. Marguerite hates St. Cyr, that is true, but she would never wish death upon him, let alone the rest of his family, who were completely innocent in this whole affair.

Yet she had done these things (...) just as two years ago the Marquis de St. Cyr had perished through a thoughtless word of hers; but in that case she was morally innocent—she had meant no serious harm—fate merely had stepped in. –––     CH XVI,  RICHMOND.

Marguerite's fatalism, which will come up again when Marguerite is blackmailed by Chauvelin, used to show how Marguerite rationalizes her part in St. Cyr’s death; the situation was out of control, she didn’t know any better. It’s important to note that Marguerite’s fatalism is only used when she wishes to absolve herself of the responsibility, to presumably safeguard her feelings and try to move on. Despite this, Marguerite still feels an extreme amount of guilt, one which haunts her enough that she confesses to Percy brashly and without telling him any of the extraneous circumstances, and which motivates her later on to try and repair her marriage and eventually save Percy.

The St. Cyr incident is a turning point for Marguerite, as she realizes that the revolution, in her eyes, has gone too far. With her word being used to arrest and send St. Cyr to his death, she realizes that her words hold more weight than she had previously thought, and that they can be used against her if they would fulfill an agenda (which, in this case, was the revolution). If St. Cyr had died by her word, then just how far would they go in the name of the revolution? How many more people would die by her hand? Would she be safe from meeting a similar fate at the guillotine? It’s questions like these that weight heavily on her, and by the time that the events of the novel begin, she is still incredibly guilt ridden due to this incident with St. Cyr, which is why she is against aiding Chauvelin in his mission to uncover the Pimpernel’s identity until she’s blackmailed — she doesn’t want to be responsible for another death, despite knowing what is at stake.

It’s her direct involvement in St. Cyr’s death that causes her to question the morality of the revolution and ultimately what it stands for. While she never gives up her ardent Republican beliefs, Marguerite is disgusted by the pointless bloodshed in order to keep the revolution alive. Her role in St. Cyr’s death is one of the key motivators for her actions in the novel, and is always weighing heavily on her conscience despite her efforts to “atone” for her sin. There’s also a feeling of betrayal that Marguerite has to come to terms with; she was tricked into denouncing St. Cyr by people she once considered her closest confidantes, who played on her love for her brother and her desire for revenge in order to do so. As a result, Marguerite has become wary of people’s intentions and motives, and in a way, she’s almost paranoid that a betrayal such as this could happen again. It’s sort of Marguerite’s “Pandora’s Box” or “Temptation of Eve” moment, where she learns that her actions will have dire consequences if not considered carefully.

While the story still works if you were to rid Marguerite of her guilt and involvement (see the ’82 film), it feels pointless and only waters down the weight of her actions in the latter half of the story when she goes to rescue Percy. Though I want to believe that adaptations have good reason to mess with this aspect of Marguerite’s storyline, it’s really just another aspect that shows the disconnect and evolution of the story as the years passed on, going from Marguerite’s story to Percy’s, with her role in the narrative becoming smaller and smaller as the story continues to be adapted for a modern audience.