I felt an urge to read this book again: The Scarlet Pimpernel, by Madame Orczy. I remember the first time I read it. I was a teenager, and my mother had given me a set of classics. Oh, how bored I was. Tortuously bored. I tried the Vicar of Wakefield, no. The Man in the Iron Mask. The Count of Monte Cristo. All were thick to my brain, language I barely understood. I liked the title of this. Written by a woman. Hmmm. I picked up The Scarlet Pimpernel and managed to push through and keep awake. How miserable the guillotine. I hadn't realized the French Revolution was like this. Mild interest. All of a sudden, several chapters in, the story began to make sense to me. My brain adjusted to the language. And then I was swept away by a story so unexpected, and brilliant, and rich with emotion and yearning. Wow. Marguerite is such an amazing heroine. She's proud, scared, feverish with strain, anguished. She's picked out by the enemy as being the one person clever enough and brave enough to accomplish the instant spy work he demanded. And the Pimpernel himself. Sighhhhhhhh. There was only one person in France or England smart enough to challenge him. It would never fly these days, for no agent, publisher, editor or impatient reader would last through the first pages. But imagine this plot, so harmonious with the setting, the romance, bravery, nobility, and the childish stubbornness of the rare main characters. My teenage mind lived in a different world when I read it.
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I loved this too ... I think I read (and loved) Tale of Two Cities around the same time