 There has of late years crept so much confusion into the mind of the student, as well as of the general reader, as to the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel, with that of the Gascon royalist plotter known to history as the Baron de Batts, that the time seems opportune for setting all doubts on that subject at rest. The identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel is in no way whatever connected with that of the Baron de Batts, and even superficial reflection will soon bring the mind to the conclusion that great fundamental differences existed in these two men, in their personality, in their character, and above all, in their aims. According to one or two enthusiastic historians, the Baron de Batts was the chief agent in a vast network of conspiracy entirely supported by foreign money, both English and Austrian, and which had for its object the overthrow of the republican government, and the restoration of the monarchy in France. In order to attain this political goal, it is avert that he set himself the task of pitting the members of the revolutionary government one against the other, and bringing hatred and dissensions among them, until the cry of traitor resounded from one end of the assembly of the convention to the other, and the assembly itself became as one vast den of wild beasts wherein wolves and hyenas devoured one another, and still unsatiated, licked their streaming jaws hungering for more prey. Those same enthusiastic historians who have a firm belief in the so-called foreign conspiracy ascribe every important event of the great revolution, be that event the downfall of the Girondins, the escape of the dove farm from the temple, or the death of Robespierre, to the intrigues of Baron de Batts. He it was, so they say, who egged the Jacobins on against the mountain, Robespierre against un ton, Hébertre against Robespierre. He it was who instigated the massacres of September, the atrocities of Nantes, the horrors of Thermidor, the sacrilegious, the noyade, all with the view of causing every section of the national assembly to vie with the other and excesses, and in cruelty, until the makers of the revolution, satiated with their own lust, turned on one another, and sardana blue like, buried themselves and their orgies in the vast hecatomb of a self-consumed anarchy. Whether the power thus ascribed to Baron de Batts by his historians is real or imaginary, it is not the purpose of his preface to investigate. Its sole object is to point out the difference between the career of this plotter and that of the Scarlet Pimpinale. The Baron de Batts himself was an adventurer without substance, save that which he derived from abroad. He was one of those men who have nothing to lose and everything to gain by throwing themselves headlong into the seething cauldron of internal politics. Though he made several attempts at rescuing King Louis first, and then the queen and royal family from prison and from death, he never succeeded, as we know, in any of these undertakings, and he never once so much as attempted the rescue of other equally innocent, if not quite so distinguished, victims of the most bloodthirsty revolution that has ever shaken the foundations of the civilized world. Nay, more! When on the 29th prairieal, those unfortunate men and women were condemned and executed for alleged complicity in the so-called foreign conspiracy, de Batts, who was universally admitted to have been the head and prime mover of that conspiracy, if indeed conspiracy there was, never made either the slightest attempt to rescue his confederates from the guillotine, or at least the offer to perish by their sides if he could not succeed in saving them. And when we remember that the martyrs of the 29th prairieal included women like Grand Maison, the devoted friend of de Batts, the beautiful Emily de Saint-Amarrant, little Cecile Renault, a mere child nox sixteen years of age, also men like Michonir Ousselle, faithful servants of de Batts, the Baron de Les Ardières, and the Comte Saint Maurice, friends, we no longer can have the slightest doubt that the gas-gone plotter and the English gentleman are indeed two very different persons. The latter's aims were absolutely non-political. He never intrigued for the restoration of the monarchy, or even for the overthrow of that republic which he loathed. His only concern was the rescue of the innocent, the stretching out of a saving hand to those unfortunate creatures who had fallen into the net spread out for them by their fellow men, by those who, godless, lawless, penniless themselves, had sworn to exterminate all those who clung to their belongings, to their religion, and to their beliefs. The scarlet pimpenel did not take it upon himself to punish the guilty. His care was solely of the helpless and of the innocent. For this aim he risked his life every time that he set foot on French soil. For it he sacrificed his fortune, and even his personal happiness, and to it he devoted his entire existence. Moreover, whereas the French plotter is said to have had Confederates even in the assembly of the convention, Confederates who were sufficiently influential and powerful to secure his own immunity, the Englishman, when he was bent on his errands of mercy, had the whole of France against him. The Baron de Bats was a man who never justified either his own ambitions, or even his existence. The scarlet pimpenel was a personality of whom an entire nation might justly be proud. CHAPTER I And yet people found the opportunity to amuse themselves, to dance and to go to the theatre, to enjoy music and open air cafes and promenades at the Palais Royale. New fashions and dress made their appearance, milleners produced fresh creations, and jewelers were not idle. A grim sense of humour, born of the very intensity of ever-present danger, had dubbed the cut of certain tunics T'et t'enche, or a favourite ragout was called a a la guillotine. On three evenings only, during the past memorable four-and-a-half years, did the theatres close their doors, and these evenings were the ones immediately following that terrible second of September, the day of the buttery outside the Abbe prison, when Paris herself was aghast with horror, and the cries of the massacred might have drowned the cause of the audience whose hands up raised to applaud its would still be dripping with blood. On all other evenings of these same four-and-a-half years, the theatres in the Rue du Richelieu, in the Palais Royale, Luxembourg, and others, had raised their curtains and taken money at their doors. The same audience that earlier in the day had wiled away the time by witnessing the ever-recurrent dramas of the Place de la Révolution, assembled here in the evenings in filled stalls, boxes, and tiers, laughing over the satires of Voltaire, or weeping over the sentimental tragedies of persecuted Romeo's and innocent Juliet's. Def knocked at so many doors these days. He was so constant a guest in the houses of relatives and friends that those who had merely shaken him by the hand, those on whom he had smiled, and whom he, still smiling, had passed indulgently by, looked on him with that subtle contempt born of familiarity, shrugged their shoulders at his passage, and envisaged his probable visit on the morrow with light-hearted indifference. Paris, despite the horrors that had stained her walls, had remained a city of pleasure, and the knife of the guillotine did scarce descend more often than did the drop-scenes on the stage. On this bitterly cold evening of the twenty-seventh Nivuse, in the second year of the Republic, or as we of the old style still persist in calling it the sixteenth of January, 1794, the auditorium of the Guiattre Nationale was filled with a very brilliant company. The appearance of a favourite actress in the part of one of Molière's volatile heroines had brought pleasure-loving Paris to witness this revival of le misanthrope, with new scenery, dresses, and the aforesaid charming actress to add Picancy to the master's moderned wit. The monitor, which so impartially chronicles the events of those times, tells us under that date that the assembly of the convention voted on that same day a new law giving fuller power to its spies, enabling them to effect domiciliary searches at their discretion without previous reference to the Committee of General Security, authorising them to proceed against all enemies of public happiness, to send them to prison at their own discretion, and assuring them the sum of thirty-five livres, quote, for every piece of game thus beaten up for the guillotine. Under that same date the monitor also puts it on record that the D'Aître Nationale was filled to its utmost capacity for the revival of the late citoyen Molière's comedy. The assembly of the convention, having voted the new law which placed the lives of thousands at the mercy of a few human bloodhounds, adjourned at sitting and proceeded to the rue de Richelieu. Only the house was full when the fathers of the people made their way to the seats which had been reserved for them. An awed hush descended on the throng, as one by one the men whose very names inspired horror and dread filed in through the narrow gangways of the stalls, or took their places in the tiny boxes around. Citizen Robespierre's neatly bugged head soon appeared in one of these. His bosom friend Saint-Just was with him, and also his sister Charlotte. D'Anton, like a big, shaggy-coated lion, elbowed his way into the stalls, whilst Sauterre, the handsome butcher and idol of the people of Paris, was loudly acclaimed as his huge frame, gorgeously clad in the uniform of the National Guard, was sighted on one of the tiers above. The public in the parterre, and in the galleries, whispered excitedly, the awe-inspiring names flew about Hithrenvitha on the wings of the overheated air. Hithren cramed their necks to catch sight of heads which may have on the murrow, would roll into the gruesome basket at the foot of the guillotine. In one of the tiny avaceux boxes, two men had taken their seats long before the bulk of the audience had begun to assemble in the house. The inside of the box was in complete darkness, and the narrow opening which allowed but a sorry view of one side of the stage helped to conceal rather than display the occupants. The younger one of these two men appeared to be something of a stranger in Paris, for as the public men and the well-known members of the government began to arrive, he often turned to his companion for information regarding these notorious personalities. "'Tell me, de Bats,' he said, calling the other's attention to a group of men who had just entered the house. That creature there in the green coat with his hand up to his face now. Who is he? Where? Which do you mean? There. He looks this way now, and he has a playbill in his hand. The man with the protruding chin and the converged sporad, a face like a marmoset and eyes like a jackal. What?" The other leaned over the edge of the box, and his small, restless eyes wandered over the now closely packed auditorium. "'Oh!' he said, as soon as he recognized the face which his friend had pointed out to him. That is Citizen Fouquiette-en-Ville, the public prosecutor, himself, and Heron is the man next to him." "'Heron?' said the younger man, interrogatively. Yes, he is chief agent to the Committee of General Security now. What does that mean?' Both leaned back in their chairs, and their somberly clad figures were once more merged in the gloom of the narrow box. Instinctively, since the name of the public prosecutor had been mentioned between them, they had allowed their voices to sink to a whisper. The older man, a stoutish, florid-looking individual with small, keen eyes and a skin pitted with smallpox, shrugged his shoulders at his friend's question, and then said with an air of contemptuous indifference, "'It means, my goods en juste, that these two men whom you see down there, calmly conning the programme of this evening's entertainment, and preparing to enjoy themselves to-night in the company of the late Monsieur de Molière, are too hellhounds as powerful as they are cunning. Yes, yes, c'est sans juste, and much against his will, a slight shudder ran through his slim figure as he spoke. Fouquiette-en-Ville, I know. I know his cunning, and I know his power. But the other?' "'The other?' retorted debates lightly. Heron?' Let me tell you, my friend, that even the might and lust of that damned public prosecutor pale before the power of Heron. But how? I do not understand. Ah, you have been in England so long, you lucky dog, and though no doubt the main plot of our hideous tragedy has reached your ken, you have no cognizance of the actors who play the principal parts on this arena flooded with blood and carpeted with hate. They come and go, these actors, my goods en juste. They come and go. Mara is already the man of yesterday, Robespierre is the man of to-morrow. Today we still have Danton and Fouquiette-en-Ville. We still have Père du Chien, and your own good cousin Antoine sans juste. But Heron and his like are with us always. Spies, of course—spies, assented the other—and what spies? Were you present at the sitting of the assembly to-day? I was. I heard the new decree which already has passed into law. Ah, I tell you, friend, that we do not let the grass grow under our feet these days. Robespierre wakes up one morning with a whim. By the afternoon that whim has become law, passed by a servile body of men, too terrified to run counter to his will, fearful lest they be accused of moderation or of humanity, the greatest crimes that can be committed nowadays. But Danton—ah, Danton—he would wish to stem the tide that his own passions have let loose, to muzzle the raging beasts whose fangs he himself has sharpened. I told you that Danton is still the man of today. Tomorrow he will be accused of moderation. Danton and moderation? Ye gods! Eh? Danton, who thought the guillotine too slow in its work, and armed thirty soldiers with swords, so that thirty heads might fall at one in the same time. Danton, friend, will perish tomorrow, accused of treachery against the revolution, of moderation towards her enemies, and cures like Heron will feast on the blood of lions like Danton in his crowd. He paused a moment, for he dared not raise his voice, and his whispers were being drowned by the noise in the auditorium. The curtain, time to be raised at eight o'clock, was still down, though it was close on half-fast, and the public was growing impatient. There was loud stamping of feet, and a few shrill whistles of disapproval proceeded from the gallery. If Heron gets impatient, said the bat slightly, when the noise had momentarily subsided, the manager of this theatre, and may have his leading actor and actress, will spend an unpleasant day to-morrow. Always Heron, said Saint-Jus, with a contemptuous smile. Yes, my friend, rejoined the other imperturbably. Always Heron. And he has even obtained a longer lease of existence this afternoon. By the new decree—yes, the new decree. The agents of the Committee of General Security, of whom Heron is the Chief, have from to-day powers of domiciliary search. They have full powers to proceed against all enemies of public welfare. Isn't that beautifully vague? And they have absolute discretion. Every one may become an enemy of public welfare, either by spending too much money, or by spending too little, by laughing to-day, or crying to-morrow, by mourning for one dead relative, or rejoicing over the execution of another. He may be a bad example to the public by the cleanliness of his person, or by the filth upon his clothes. He may offend by walking to-day, and by riding in a carriage next week. The agents of the Committee of General Security shall alone decide what constitutes enmity against public welfare. All prisons are to be opened at their bidding to receive those whom they choose to denounce. They have henceforth the right to examine prisoners privately and without witnesses, and to send them to trial without further warrants. Their duty is clear. They must beat up game for the guillotine. Thus is the decree worded. They must furnish the public prosecutor with work to do, the tribunals with victims to condemn, the Place de la Révolution with death-scenes to amuse the people, and for their work they will be rewarded thirty-five livres for every head that falls under the guillotine. Ah! If Heron and his like and his murmidance work hard and well, they can make a comfortable income of four or five thousand livres a week. We are getting on, France-en-Juste. We are getting on. He had not raised his voice while he spoke, nor in the recounting of such inhuman monstrosity, such vile and bloodthirsty conspiracy against the liberty, the dignity, the very life of an entire nation, did he appear to feel the slightest indignation. Rather did the tone of amusement and even of triumph strike through his speech, and now he laughed good-humidly like an indulgent parent who is watching the naturally cruel antics of a spoiled boy. "'Then from this hell let loose upon earth,' exclaimed Saint-Juste hotly, "'must we rescue those who refuse to ride upon this tide of blood?' His cheeks were glowing, his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. He looked very young and very eager. Ah! Mains Saint-Juste, the brother of Lady Blakeney, had something of the refined beauty of his lovely sister. But the features, though manly, had not the latent strength expressed in them which characterized every light of margarite's exquisite face. The forehead suggested a dreamer rather than a thinker. The blue-gray eyes were those of an idealist, rather than a man of action. Debats' keen, piercing eyes had no doubt noted this, even whilst he gazed at his young friend with that same look of good-humid indulgence which seemed habitual to him. "'We have to think of the future, my good Saint-Juste,' he said after a slight pause, and speaking slowly and decisively, like a father rebuking a hot-headed child. Not of the present. Mature a few lives' worth beside the great principles which we have at stake. "'The restoration of the monarchy, I know,' retorted Saint-Juste, still unsobered. But in the meanwhile—in the meanwhile,' rejoined Debats earnestly, every victim to the lust of these men, is a step towards the restoration of law and order, that is to say, of the monarchy. It is only through these violent excesses perpetrated in its name that the nation will realize how it is being fooled by a set of men who have only their own power and their own advancement in view, and who imagine that the only way to that power is over the dead bodies of those who stand in their way. Once the nation is sickened by these orgies of ambition and of hate, it will turn against these savage brutes, and gladly acclaim the restoration of all that they are striving to destroy. This is our only hope for the future, and believe me, friend, that every head snatched from the guillotine by your romantic hero, the Scarlett Pimpernel, is a stone laid for the consolidation of this infamous republic. "'I'll not believe it,' protested Saint-Juste emphatically. Debats, with a gesture of contempt indicative also of complete self-satisfaction and unalterable self-belief, shrugged his broad shoulders, his short fat fingers covered with rings, beat a tattoo upon the ledge of the box. Obviously he was ready with the retort. His young friend's attitude irritated even more than it amused him. But he said nothing for the moment, waiting while the traditional three knocks on the floor of the stage proclaimed the rise of the curtain. The growing impatience of the audience subsided as if by magic at the welcome call. Everybody settled down again comfortably in their seats. They gave up the contemplation of the fathers of the people, and turned their full attention to the actors on the boards. CHAPTER II This was Armand Saint-Juste's first visit to Paris since that memorable day when first he decided to sever his connection from the Republican Party, of which he and his beautiful sister Marguerite had at one time been amongst the most noble, most enthusiastic followers. Already a year and a half ago the excesses of the party had horrified him, and that was long before they had degenerated into the sickening orgies which were culminating today in wholesale massacres and bloody hecatombs of innocent victims. With the death of Mirabeau, the moderate Republicans whose sole and entirely pure aim had been to free the people of France from the autocratic tyranny of the Bourbons, saw the power go from their clean hands to the grimy ones of lustful demagogues, who knew no law save their own passions of bitter hatred against all classes that were not as self-seeking as ferocious as themselves. It was no longer a question of a fight for political and religious liberty only, but one of class against class, man against man, and let the weaker look to himself. The weaker had proved himself to be, firstly, the man of property and substance, then the law-abiding citizen, lastly the man of action who had obtained for the people that very same liberty of thought and of belief which soon became so terribly misused. Amin Saint-Just, one of the apostles of liberty, fraternity, and equality, soon found that the most savage excesses of tyranny were being perpetrated in the name of those same ideals which he had worshipped. His sister Marguerite, happily married in England, was the final temptation which caused him to quit the country, the destinies of which he no longer could help to control. The spark of enthusiasm which he and the followers of Mirabeau had tried to kindle in the hearts of an oppressed people had turned to raging tongues of unquenchable flames. The taking of the Bastille had been the prelude to the massacres of September, and even the horror of these had since paled beside the holocausts of today. Amin, saved from the swift vengeance of the revolutionaries by the devotion of the scarlet Pimpanel, crossed over to England and enrolled himself under the banner of the heroic chief. And he had been unable hitherto to be an active member of the league. The chief was loath to allow him to run full hardy risks. The Saint-Just, both Marguerite and Amin, were still very well known in Paris. Marguerite was not a woman easily forgotten, and her marriage with an English aristote did not please those republican circles who had looked upon her as their queen. Amin's secession from his party into the ranks of the Emigré had singled him out for special reprisals, if and whenever he could be got hold of, and both brother and sister had an unusually bitter enemy in their cousin, Antoine Saint-Just, once an aspirant to Marguerite's hand, and now a servile adherent and imitator of Robespierre, whose ferocious cruelty he tried to emulate with a view to ingratiating himself with the most powerful man of the day. Nothing would have pleased Antoine Saint-Just more than the opportunity of showing his zeal and his patriotism by denouncing his own kiff and kin to the tribunal of the terror, and the scarlet Pimpanel, whose own slender fingers were held on the pulse of that reckless revolution, had no wish to sacrifice Amin's life deliberately, or even expose it to unnecessary dangers. Thus it was that more than a year had gone by before Amin Saint-Just, an enthusiastic member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpanel, was able to do what for its service. He had chafed under the enforced restraint placed upon him by the prudence of his chief, when indeed he was longing to risk his life with the comrades whom he loved, and beside the leader whom he revered. At last, in the beginning of ninety-four, he persuaded Blakeney to allow him to join the next expedition to France. What the principal aim of that expedition was, the members of the League did not know as yet, but what they did know was that perils, graver even than hitherto, would attend them on their way. The circumstances had become very different of late. At first the impenetrable mystery which had surrounded the personality of the chief had been a full measure of safety, but now one tiny corner of that veil of mystery had been lifted, by two rough pairs of hands at least. Chauvelin, ex-ambassager at the English court, was no longer in any doubt as to the identity of the Scarlet Pimpanel, whilst Colo Der Bois had seen him at Boulogne, and had there been effectively foiled by him. Four months had gone by since that day, and the Scarlet Pimpanel was hardly ever out of France now. The masochism Paris and in the provinces had multiplied with appalling rapidity. The necessity for the selfless devotion of that small band of heroes had become daily, hourly more pressing. They rallied round their chief with unbounded enthusiasm, and let it be admitted at once that the sporting instinct inherent in these English gentlemen made them all the more keen, all the more eager now that the dangers which beset their expeditions were increased tenfold. At a word from the beloved leader, these young men, the spoilt darlings of society, would leave the gayities, the pleasures, the luxuries of London or of Bath, and taking their lives in their hands they placed them, together with their fortunes and even their good names, at the service of the innocent and helpless victims of merciless tyranny. The married men, folks, my Lord Hastings, Sir Jeremiah Walscourt, left wife and children at a core from the chief, at the cry of the wretched. Armand, unattached and enthusiastic, had the right to demand that he should no longer be left behind. He had only been away a little over fifteen months, and yet he found Paris a different city from the one he had left immediately after the terrible massacres of September. An air of grim loneliness seemed to hang over her despite the crowds that thronged her streets. The men whom he was want to meet in public places fifteen months ago, friends and political allies, were no longer to be seen. Strange faces surrounded him on every side. Sullen, glowering faces, all wearing a certain air of horrified surprise and a vague, terrified wonder, as if life had become one awful puzzle, the answer to which must be found in the brief interval between the swift passages of death. Armand Saint-Just, having settled his few simple belongings in the squalid lodgings which had been assigned to him, had started out after dark to wander somewhat aimlessly through the streets. Instinctively, he seemed to be searching for a familiar face, someone who would come to him out of that merry past which he had spent with Marguerite in their pretty apartment in the Rue Saint-Honorais. For an hour he wondered thus and meant no one whom he knew. At times it appeared to him as if he did recognize a face or figure that passed him swiftly by in the gloom, but even before he could fully make up his mind to that, the face or figure had already disappeared, gliding furtively down some narrow, unlighted by-street, without turning to look to right or left, as if dreading fuller recognition. Armand felt a total stranger in his own native city. The terrible hours of the execution on the Place de la Révolution were fortunately over. The tumbrels no longer rattled along the uneven pavements, and ordered the death-cry of the unfortunate victims resound through the deserted streets. Armand was, on this first day of his arrival, spared the sight of this degradation of the once lovely city, but her desolation, her general appearance of shame-faced indigence and of cruel aloofness, struck a chill in the young man's heart. It was no wonder, therefore, when anon he was wending his way slowly back to his lodging, he was accosted by a pleasant, cheerful voice, that he responded to it with alacrity. The voice, of a smooth, oily tumbre, as if the oner kept it well greased for purposes of amiable speech, was like an echo of the past, when jolly irresponsible barren debates, erstwhile officer of the guard in the service of the late King, and since then known to be the most inveterate conspirator for the restoration of the monarchy, used to amuse Marguerite by his vapid, senseless plans for the overthrow of the newly risen power of the people. Armand was quite glad to meet him, and when debates suggested that a good talk over old times would be vastly agreeable, the younger man gladly exceeded. The two men, though certainly not mistrustful of one another, did not seem to care to reveal to each other the place where they lodged. Debats had once proposed the advance Sem-box of one of the theatres as being the safest place where old friends could talk without fear of spying eyes or ears. There is no place so safe or so private nowadays, believe me, my young friend, he said. I have tried every sort of nook and cranny in this accursed town now riddled with spies, and I have come to the conclusion that a small of our Sem-box is the most perfect den of privacy there is in the entire city. The voices of the actors on the stage and the hum among the audience in the house will effectually drown all individual conversation to every ear save the one for whom it is intended. It is not difficult to persuade a young man who feels lonely and somewhat forlorn in a large city to wile away an evening in the companionship of a cheerful talker, and Debats was essentially good company. His vapourings had always been amusing, but Armand now gave him credit for more seriousness of purpose, and though the chief had warned him against picking up acquaintances in Paris, the young man felt that that restriction would certainly not apply to a man like Debats, whose hot partisanship of the royalist cause and harebrained schemes for its restoration must make him at one with the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Armand accepted the other's cordial invitation. He too felt that he would indeed be safer from observation in a crowded theatre than in the streets. Among a closely packed frong bent on amusement, the somberly clad figure of a young man with the appearance of a student or of a journalist would easily pass unperceived. But somehow, after the first ten minutes spent in Debats's company, within the gloomy shelter of the small Avince box, Armand already repented of the impulse which had prompted him to come to the theatre tonight, and to renew acquaintanceship with the ex-officer of the late King's Guard. Though he knew Debats to be an ardent royalist, and even an active adherent of the monarchy, he was soon conscious of a vague sense of mistrust of this pompous, self-complacent individual whose every utterance breathed selfish aims rather than devotion to a full-on cause. Therefore, when the curtain rose at last on the first act of Molière's witty comedy, Saint-Jus deliberately turned towards the stage and tried to interest himself in the wordy quarrel between Filanth and Alseste. But this attitude on the part of the younger man did not seem to suit his newly found friend. It was clear that Debats did not consider the topic of conversation by any means exhausted, and that it had been more with a view to a discussion like the present interrupted one, that he had invited Saint-Jus to come to the theatre with him tonight, rather than for the purpose of witnessing Mademoiselle Lange's debut in the part of Saliment. The presence of Saint-Jus in Paris had as a matter of fact astonished Debats not a little, and had set his intriguing brain busy on conjectures. It was in order to turn these conjectures into certainties that he had desired private talk with the young man. He waited silently now for a moment or two. His keen, small eyes resting with evident anxiety on Amman's averted head, his fingers still beating the impatient tattoo upon the velvet covered cushion of the box. Then at the first movement of Saint-Jus towards him he was ready in an instant to reopen the subject under discussion. With a quick nod of his head he called his young friend's attention back to the men in the auditorium. Your good cousin Antoine Saint-Jus dishand and gloved with Robespierre now, he said. When you left Paris more than a year ago you could afford to despise him as an empty-headed windbag. Now if you desire to remain in France you will have to fear him as a power under menace. Yes. I knew that he had taken to herding with the wolves, rejoined Amman lightly. At one time he was in love with my sister. I thank God that she never cared for him. They say that he herds with the wolves because of this disappointment, said Debats. The whole pack is made up of men who have been disappointed and who have nothing more to lose. When all these wolves will have devoured one another, then and then only can we hope for the restoration of the monarchy in France, and they will not turn on one another whilst pray for their greed lies ready to their jaws. Your friend the Scarlet Pimpernel should feed this bloody revolution of ours rather than starve it, if indeed he hates it as much as he seems to do. His restless eyes peered with eager interrogation into those of the younger man. He paused as if waiting for a reply. Then as Saint-Just remained silent, he reiterated slowly, almost in the tones of a challenge. If indeed he hates this blood-thirsty revolution of ours as he seems to do. The reiteration implied a doubt. In a moment Saint-Just's loyalty was up in arms. The Scarlet Pimpernel, he said, cares not for your political aims. The work of mercy that he does, he does for justice and for humanity. And for sport, said the bats with a snare, so I've been told. Here's English, assented Saint-Just, and as such will never own to sentiment. Whatever be the motive, look at the result. Yes, a few lives stolen from the guillotine. Women and children, innocent victims, would have perished but for his devotion. The more innocent they are, the more helpless, the more pitiable, the louder their blood would have cried for reprisals against the wild beasts who sent them to their death. Saint-Just made no reply. It was obviously useless to attempt to argue with this man, whose political aims were as far apart from those of the Scarlet Pimpernel as was the North Pole from the South. If any of you have influence over that hot-headed leader of yours, continued debats, unabashed by the silence of his friend, I wish to God you would exert it now. In what way, queried Saint-Just, smiling in spite of himself at the thought of his or anyone else's control over Blakeney and his plans. It was debats's turn to be silent. He paused for a moment or two, then he asked abruptly, �Your Scarlet Pimpernel is in Paris now, is he not? �I cannot tell you,� replied Ardmand. �Bah! There is no necessity to fence with me, my friend. The moment I set eyes on you this afternoon, I knew that you had not come to Paris alone. �You are mistaken, my good debats,� rejoined the young man earnestly. �I came to Paris alone. Clever parrying on my word, but wholly wasted on my unbelieving ears. �Did I not note at once that you did not seem over pleased today when I accosted you? Again you are mistaken. I was very pleased to meet you, for I had felt singularly lonely all day, and was glad to shake a friend by the hand. What you took for displeasure was only surprise. �Surprise?� �Ah, yes! I don't wonder that you were surprised to see me walking unmolested and openly in the streets of Paris, whereas you had heard of me as a dangerous conspirator, eh? And as a man who has the entire police of his country at his heels, on whose head there is a price, what? I knew that you had made several noble efforts to rescue the unfortunate king and queen from the hands of these brutes. All of which efforts were unsuccessful ascent to debats imperturbably, every one of them having been either betrayed by some damned confederate, or ferreted out by some astute spy eager for gain. Yes, my friend, I made several efforts to rescue King Louis and Queen Marie Antoinette from the scaffold, and every time I was foiled. And yet here I am, you see, unscathed and free. I walk about the streets boldly and talk to my friends as I meet them. You are lucky, said Saint-Jus, not without a tinge of sarcasm. I have been prudent, retorted debats. I have taken the trouble to make friends there where I thought I needed them most. The mammon of unrighteousness, you know what? And he laughed a broad, thick laugh of perfect self-satisfaction. Yes, I know, rejoined Saint-Jus, with the tone of sarcasm still more apparent in his voice now. You have Austrian money at your disposal. Any amount, said the other complacently, and a great deal of it sticks to the grimy fingers of these patriotic makers of revolutions. Thus do I ensure my own safety. I buy it with the Emperor's money, and thus am I able to work for the restoration of the monarchy in France. Again Saint-Jus was silent. What could he say? Instinctively now, as the fleshy personality of the Gascon royalist seemed to spread itself out, and to fill the tiny box with his ambitious schemes and his far-reaching plans, our man's thoughts flew back to that other plotter, the man with the pure and simple aims, the man whose slender fingers had never handled alien gold, but were ever there ready stretched out to the helpless in the weak, whilst his thoughts were only of the help that he might give them, but never of his own safety. Debats, however, seemed blandly unconscious of any such disparaging thoughts in the mind of his young friend, for he continued quite amiably, even though a note of anxiety seemed to make itself felt now in his smooth voice. We advance slowly, but step by step, my good Saint-Jus, he said. I have not been able to save the monarchy and the person of the King or the Queen, but I may yet do it in the person of the Dauphin. The Dauphin, murmured Saint-Jus involuntarily. That involuntary murmur, scarcely audible, so soft was it, seemed in some way to satisfy Debats, for the keenness of his gaze relaxed, and his fat fingers ceased their nervous, intermittent tattoo on the ledge of the box. Yes, the Dauphin, he said, nodding his head as if in answer to his own thoughts, or rather, let me say, the reigning King of France, Louis XVII, by the grace of God, the most precious life at present upon the whole of this earth. You are right there, friend Debats, assented our mound fervently, the most precious life as you say, and one that must be saved at all costs. Yes, said Debats, calmly, but not by your friend the Scarlet Pimponel. Why not? Scares were those two little words out of Saint-Jus's mouth and he repented of them. He bit his lip, and with a dark frown upon his face he turned almost defiantly towards his friend. But Debats smiled with easy bonomie. Ah, friend our mound, he said, you are not cut out for diplomacy, nor yet for intrigue. So then, he added more seriously, that gallant hero, the Scarlet Pimponel, has hopes of rescuing our young King from the clutches of Simon the Cobbler, and of the herd of hyenas on the watch for his attenuated little corpse, eh? I did not say that, retort his Saint-Jus, sullenly. No, but I say it. Nay, nay, do not blame yourself, my over-loyal young friend. Could I, or any one else, doubt for a moment that sooner or later your romantic hero would turn his attention to the most pathetic sight in the whole of Europe, the child martyr of the temple-prison? The wonder were to me if the Scarlet Pimponel ignored our little King altogether for the sake of his subjects. No, no. Do not think for a moment that you have betrayed your friend's secret to me. When I met you so luckily to-day, I guessed at once that you were here under the banner of the enigmatic little red flower, and thus, guessing, I even went a step further in my conjecture. The Scarlet Pimponel is in Paris now, in the hope of rescuing Louis the 17th from the temple-prison. If that is so, you must not only rejoice but should be able to help. And yet, my friend, I do neither one now nor mean to do the other in the future," said the bats, placidly. I happen to be a Frenchman, you see. What has that to do with such a question? Everything. Though you, Armand, despite that you are a Frenchman, too, do not look through my spectacles. Louis the 17th is King of France, my good Saint-Just. He must owe his freedom and his life to us Frenchmen and to no one else. That is, she a madness man, retorted Armand. Would you have the child perish for the sake of your own selfish ideas? You may call them selfish, if you will. All patriotism is in a measure selfish. What does the rest of the world care if we are a republic or a monarchy, an oligarchy or hopeless anarchy? We work for ourselves and to please ourselves, and I, for one, will not brook foreign interference. Yet you work with foreign money. That is another matter. I cannot get money in France, so I get it where I can. But I can arrange for the escape of Louis the 17th. He is King of France, my good Saint-Just. He must of France should belong the honour and glory of having saved our King. For the third time now Saint-Just allowed the conversation to drop. He was gazing wide-eyed, almost appalled, at this impudent display of well-knife ferocious selfishness and vanity. Debats, smiling and complacent, was leaning back in his chair, looking at his young friend with perfect contentment expressed in every line of his pock-marked face and in the very attitude of his well-fed body. It was easy enough now to understand the remarkable immunity which this man was enjoying, despite the many foolhardy plots which he hatched, and which had up to now invariably come to naught. A regular braggart and empty wind-bag he had taken but one good care, and that was of his own skin. Unlike other less fortunate royalists of France, he neither fought in the country nor braved dangers in town. He played a safer game, crossed the frontier, and constituted himself agent of Austria. He succeeded in gaining the Emperor's money for the good of the royalist cause, and for his own most especial benefit. Even a lesser stupe-man of the world than was Armand Saint-Just would easily have guessed that Debats' desire to be the only instrument in the rescue of the poor little dove found from the temple was not actuated by patriotism but solely by greed. Obviously there was a rich reward waiting for him in Vienna the day that he brought Louis the 17th safely into Austrian territory. That reward he would miss if a meddlesome Englishman interfered in this affair. Whether in this wrangle he risked the life of the child king or not mattered to him not at all. It was Debats who was to get the reward, and whose welfare and prosperity mattered more than the most precious life in Europe. CHAPTER III. THE DEMON CHANCE Saint-Just would have given much to be back in his lonely, squalid lodgings now. Too late did he realize how wise had been the dictum which had warned him against making or renewing friendships in France. Men had changed with the times. How terribly they had changed. Personal safety had become a fetish with most, a goal so difficult to attain that it had to be fought for and striven for, even at the expense of humanity and of self-respect. Selfishness, mere cold-blooded insistence for self-advancement, ruled supreme. Debats, surfited with foreign money, used it firstly to ensure his own immunity, scattering at a right and left to still the ambition of the public prosecutor, or to satisfy the greed of innumerable spies. What was left over he used for the purpose of pitting the blood-firsty demagogues one against the other, making of the national assembly a gigantic bear den wherein wild beasts could rend one another limb from limb. In the meanwhile, what cared he, he said it himself, where the hundreds of innocent martyrs perished miserably and uselessly. They were the necessary food whereby the revolution was to be satiated, and Debats' schemes enabled to mature. The most precious life in Europe, even, was only to be saved if its price went to swell the pockets of Debats, or to further his future ambitions. Times had indeed changed an entire nation. Saint-Jus felt as sickened with this self-seeking royalist as he did with the savage brutes who struck to right or left for their own delectation. He was meditating immediate flight back to his lodgings, with the hope of finding there a word for him from the chief—a word to remind him that men did live nowadays who had other aims beside their own advancement, other ideals beside the deification of self. The curtain had descended on the first act, and traditionally, as the works of Monsieur de Molière demanded it, the three knocks were heard again without any interval. Saint-Jus rose ready with a pretext for parting with his friend. The curtain was being slowly drawn up on the second act, and disclosed Alceste in wrathful conversation with silly men. Alceste's opening speech is short. Whilst the actor spoke it, our man had his back to the stage. With hand outstretched he was murmuring what he hoped would prove a polite excuse for thus leaving his amiable host while the entertainment had only just begun. Debats, vexed and impatient, had not by any means finished with his friend yet. He thought that his specious arguments, delivered with boundless conviction, had made some impression on the mind of the young man. That impression, however, he desired to deepen, and whilst our man was worrying his brain to find a plausible excuse for going away, Debats was racking his to find one for keeping him here. Then it was that the wayward demon chants intervened. Had Saint-Jus risen but two minutes earlier, had his active mind suggested the desired excuse more readily, who knows what unspeakable sorrow, what heart-rending misery, what terrible shame might have been spared both him and those for whom he cared. Those two minutes, did he but know it, decided the whole course of his future life. The excuse hovered on his lips. Debats reluctantly was preparing to bid him good-bye, when silly men, speaking commonplace words enough in answer to a quarrelsome lover, caused him to drop the hand which he was holding out to his friend, and to turn back towards the stage. It was an exquisite voice that had spoken, a voice mellow and tender, with deep tones in it that betrayed latent power. The voice had caused Armand to look, the lips that spoke forged the first tiny link of that chain which riveted him forever after to the speaker. It is difficult to say if such a thing really exists as love at first sight. Poets and romantices will have us believe that it does, idealists swear by it as being the only true love worthy of the name. I do not know if I am prepared to admit their theory with regard to our mouse-on-drused. Mademoiselle launched his exquisite voice certainly had charmed him to the extent of making him forget his mistrust of debats and his desire to get away. Mechanically almost he sat down again, and leaning both elbows on the edge of the box, he rested his chin in his hand and listened. The words which the late Monsieur de Molière puts into the mouth of silly men are trite and flippant enough, yet every time that Mademoiselle launched his lips moved, Armand watched her, entranced. There no doubt the matter would have ended. A young man fascinated by a pretty woman on the stage, it is a small matter, and one from which their doth not often spring a weary trail of tragic circumstances. Armand, who had a passion for music, would have worshipped at the shrine of Mademoiselle's perfect voice until the curtain came down on the last act, had not his friend debats seen the keen enchantment which the actress had produced on the young enthusiast. Now debats was a man who never allowed an opportunity to slip by, if that opportunity led towards the furtherance of his own desires. He did not want to lose sight of Armand just yet, and here the good demon chance had given him an opportunity for obtaining what he wanted. He waited quietly until the fall of the curtain at the end of act two. Then, as Armand, with a sigh of delight, leaned back in his chair and closing his eyes appeared to be living the last half hour all over again, debats remarked with well-assumed indifference. Mademoiselle Lange is a promising young actress. Do you not think so, my friend? She has a perfect voice. It was exquisite melody to the ear, replied Armand. I was conscious of little else. She is a beautiful woman, nevertheless, continued debats with a smile. During the next act, my good Saint-Jus, I would suggest that you opened your eyes as well as your ears. Armand did as he was bitten. The whole appearance of Mademoiselle Lange seemed in harmony with her voice. She was not very tall, but eminently graceful, with a small oval face and slender almost childlike figure, which appeared still more so above the wide hoops and draped panniers of the fashions of Molière's time. Whether she was beautiful or not, the young man hardly knew. Measured by certain standards she certainly was not so, for her mouth was not small, and her nose anything but classical and outline. But the eyes were brown, and they had that half-fail look in them, shaded with long lashes that seemed to make a perpetual tender appeal to the masculine heart. Her lips, too, were full and moist, and the teeth dazzling white. Yes. On the whole we might easily say that she was exquisite, even though we did not admit that she was beautiful. Painter David has made a sketch of her. We have all seen it at the Musée Garnavallée, and all wondered why that charming, if a regular little face made such an impression of sadness. There are five acts in Le Mise-en-Trope, during which Selimaine is almost constantly on the stage. At the end of the fourth act Abat said casually to his friend, I have the honour of personal acquaintanceship with Mademoiselle Lange, and you care for an introduction to her we can go round to the green room after the play. Did Prudence then whispered, Desist? Did loyalty to the leader murmur, Obey? It were indeed difficult to say. Armand Saint-Jus was not five and twenty, and Mademoiselle Lange's melodious voice spoke louder than the whisperings of Prudence, or even than the call of duty. He thanked Abat's warmling, and during the last half-hour, while the misanthropical lover spurned repentant Selimaine, he was conscious of a curious sensation of impatience, a tingling of his nerves, a wild, mad longing to hear those full-moist lips pronounce his name, and have those large brown eyes throw their half-veiled looked into his own. CHAPTER IV Mademoiselle Lange The green room was crowded when Debats and Saint-Jus arrived there after the performance. The older man cast a hasty glance through the open door. The crowd did not suit his purpose, and he dragged his companion hurriedly away from the contemplation of Mademoiselle Lange, sitting in a far corner of the room, surrounded by an admiring throng, and by innumerable floral tributes offered to her beauty and to her success. Debats, without a word, led the way back towards the stage. Here, by the dim light of tallow candles fixed in sconces against the surrounding walls, the scene-shifters were busy moving drop-scenes, back-cloths, and wings, and paid no heed to the two men who strolled slowly up and down silently, each wrapped in his own thoughts. Armand walked with his hands buried in his bridge's pockets, his head bent forward on his chest, but every now and again he threw a quick, apprehensive glances around him, whenever a firm step echoed along the empty stage, or a voice rang clearly through the now deserted theatre. "'Are we wise to wait here?' he asked, speaking to himself rather than to his companion. He was not anxious about his own safety, but the words of Debats had impressed themselves upon his mind. Heron and his spies we have always with us. From the green room a separate foyer and exit led directly out into the street. Gradually the sound of many voices, the loud laughter and occasional snatches of song, which for the past half-hour had preceded from that part of the house, became more subdued and more rare. One by one the friends of the artists were leaving the theatre, after having paid the usual banal compliments to those whom they favoured, or presented the accustomed offering of flowers to the brightest star of the night. The actors were the first to retire, then the older actresses, the ones who could no longer command a court of admirers around them. They all filed out of the green room and crossed the stage to where, at the back, a narrow, rickety wooden stairs led to their so-called dressing-rooms—tiny, dark cubicles, ill-lighted, unventilated, where some half-dozen of the lesser stars tumbled over one another, while removing wigs and grease-paint. Armand and Debats watched this exodus, both with equal impatience. Mademoiselle Lange was the last to leave the green room. For some time, since the crowd had become thinner around her, Armand had contrived to catch glimpses of her slight, elegant figure. A short passage led from the stage to the green room door, which was wide open, and at the corner of this passage the young man had paused from time to time in his walk, gazing with earnest admiration at the dainty outline of the young girl's head, with its wig of powdered curls that seemed scarcely whiter than the creamy brilliance of her skin. Debats did not watch Mademoiselle Lange, beyond casting impatient looks in the direction of the crowd that prevented her leaving the green room. He did watch Armand, however, noted his eager look, his brisk and alert movements, the obvious glances of admiration which he cast in the direction of the young actress, and this seemed to afford him a considerable amount of contentment. The best part of an hour had gone by since the fall of the curtain, before Mademoiselle Lange finally dismissed her many admirers, and Debats had the satisfaction of seeing her running down the passage, turning back occasionally in order to bid gay good-nights to the loiterers who were loathed apart from her. She was a child in all her movements, quite unconscious of self or of her own charms, but frankly delighted with her success. She was still dressed in the ridiculous hoops and panniers pertaining to her part, and the powdered perook hid the charm of her own hair. The costume gave a certain stilted air to her unaffected personality, which by this very sense of contrast was essentially fascinating. In her arms she held a huge sheaf of sweet-scented Narcissi, the spoils of some favourite spot far away in the south. Armand thought that never in his life had he seen anything so winsome or so charming. Having at last said the positive final adieu, Mademoiselle Lange with a happy little sigh turned to run down the passage. She came face to face with Armand, and gave a sudden little gasp of terror. It was not good these days to come on any loiterer unawares. But already Debats had quickly joined his friend, and his smooth, pleasant voice and podgy, berringed hand, extended towards Mademoiselle Lange, were sufficient to reassure her. She was so surrounded in the green room, Mademoiselle, he said courteously, I did not venture to press in among the crowd of your admirers, yet I had the great wish to present my respectful congratulations in person. Ah, c'est ce cher Debats! exclaimed Mademoiselle Gailey, and that exquisitely rippling voice of hers. And where in the world do you spring from, my friend? Ah! she whispered, holding her small bemitant hand in his and putting one finger to his lips, with an urgent entreaty for discretion. Not my name, I beg of you, fair one. Bah! she were taunted lightly, even though her full lips trembled now as she spoke, and belied her very words. You need have no fear whilst you are in this part of the house. It is an understood thing that the Committee of General Security does not send its spies behind the curtain of a theatre. Why, if all of us actors and actresses were sent to the guillotine, there would be no play on the morrow. Artists are not replaceable in a few hours. Those that are in existence must perforce be spared, or the citizens who govern us now would not know where to spend their evenings. But though she spoke so airily, and with her accustomed gaiety, it was easily perceived that even on this childish mind the dangers which beset every one these days had already imprinted their mark of suspicion and of caution. Come into my dressing-room, she said. I must not tarry here any longer, for they will be putting out the lights. But I have a room to myself, and we can talk there quite agreeably. She led the way across the stage, towards the wooden stairs. Armand, who during this brief colloquy between his friend and the young girl, had kept discreetly in the background, felt undecided what to do. But at a preemptory sign from debats, he too turned in the wake of the gay little lady who ran swiftly up the rickety steps, humming snatches of popular songs a while, and not turning to see if indeed the two men were following her. She had the sheaf of Narcissus still in her arms, and the door of her tiny dressing-room being open, she ran straight in and threw the flowers down in a confused, sweet-scented mass upon the small table that stood at one end of the room, littered with pots and bottles, letters, mirrors, powder-puffs, silk stockings, and Cambridge handkerchiefs. Then she turned and faced the two men, a merry look of unalterable gaiety dancing in her eyes. "'Shut the door, mon ami,' she said to debats, and after that sit down where you can, so long as it is not on my most precious pot of unguant, or a box of costliest powder.' While debats did as he was told, she turned to Armand, and said with a pretty tone of interrogation in her melodious voice, "'Monsieur,' said Armand, bowing very low in the most approved style obtaining at the English court. "'Saint-Just,' she repeated, a look of puzzlement in her brown eyes. "'Surely,' a kinsman of citizen Saint-Just, whom no doubt you know, madmoselle,' he exclaimed. "'My friend, Armand Saint-Just,' interposed to bats, is practically a newcomer in Paris. He lives in England habitually.' "'In England,' she exclaimed. "'Oh, do tell me all about England. I would love to go there. Perhaps I may have to go some day. Oh, do sit down, debats,' she continued, talking rather voluble, even as a delicate blush heightened the colour in her cheeks under the look of obvious admiration from Armand Saint-Just's expressive eyes. She swept a handful of delicate cambrick and silk from off a chair, making room for debats' portly figure. Then she sat upon the sofa, and with an inviting gesture and a call from the eyes, she bade Armand sit down next to her. She leaned back against the cushions, and the table being close by, she stretched out a hand and once more took up the bunch of Narcissi, and while she talked to Armand she held the snow-white blooms quite close to her face—so close, in fact, that he could not see her mouth and chin, only her dark eyes shone across at him over the heads of the blossoms. "'Tell me all about England,' she reiterated, settling herself down among the cushions like a spoilt child who was about to listen to an off-told, favourite story.' Armand was vexed at debats' sitting there. He felt he could have told this dainty lady quite a good deal about England if only his pompous, fat friend would have had the good sense to go away. As it was, he felt unusually timid and gauche, not quite knowing what to say—a fact which seemed to amuse Mademoiselle Lange not a little. "'I am very fond of England,' he said, lamely. "'My sister is married to an Englishman, and I myself have taken up my permanent residence there.' "'Among the society of Emma Grace?' she queried. "'Then, as Armand made no reply, debats' interposed quickly. "'Oh, you need not fear to admit it, my good Armand. Mademoiselle Lange has many friends among the Emma Grace. Have you not, Mademoiselle?' "'Yes, of course,' she replied lightly. "'I have friends everywhere. Their political views have nothing to do with me. Artists, I think, should have not to do with politics. You see, citizens en juste, I never inquired of you what were your views. Your name and kinship would proclaim you a partisan of citizen Robespierre, yet I find you in the company of Monsieur Debats, and you tell me that you live in England.' He is no partisan of citizen Robespierre, again in deposed debats. In fact, Mademoiselle, I may safely tell you, I think, that my friend has but one ideal on this earth, whom he has set up in a shrine, and whom he worships with all the ardour of a Christian for his God. How romantic, she said, and she looked straight at Armand. Tell me, Monsieur, is your ideal a woman or a man?' His look answered her, even before he boldly spoke the two words. A woman. She took a deep draft of sweet intoxicating scent from the Narcissi, and his gaze once more brought blushes to her cheeks. Debats's good-humoured laugh helped her to hide this unwanted excess of confusion. "'That was well turned, friend Armand,' he said lightly, "'but I assure you, Mademoiselle, that before I brought him here to-night, his ideal was a man.' "'A man?' she exclaimed, with a contemptuous little pout. Who was it? I know no other name for him, but that of a small, insignificant flower. The Scarlet Pimpernel,' replied Debats. "'The Scarlet Pimpernel?' she ejaculated, dropping the flower suddenly, and gazing on Armand with wide, wandering eyes. "'And do you know him, Monsieur?' He was frowning despite himself, despite the delight which he felt at sitting so close to this charming little lady, and feeling that in a measure his presence and his personality interested her. But he felt irritated with Debats, and angered at what he considered the latter's indiscretion. To him the very name of his leader was almost a sacred one. He was one of those enthusiastic devotees who only cared to name the idol of their dreams with baited breath, and only in the ears of those who would understand and sympathize. Again he felt that if only he could have been alone with Mademoiselle, he could have told her all about the Scarlet Pimpernel, knowing that in her he would find a ready listener, a helping and loving heart. But as it was he merely replied tamely enough, "'Yes, Mademoiselle, I do know him. You have seen him?' she queried eagerly, spoken to him. "'Yes.' "'Oh, do tell me all about him. You know quite a number of us in France have the greatest possible admiration for your national hero. We know, of course, that he is an enemy of our government. But oh, we feel that he is not an enemy of France because of that. We are a nation of heroes, too, Monsieur,' she added with a pretty, proud toss of the head, "'We can appreciate bravery and resource, and we love the mystery that surrounds the personality of your Scarlet Pimpernel. But since you know him, Monsieur, tell me, what is he like?' Armand was smiling again. He was yielding himself up wholly to the charm which emanated from this young girl's entire being, from her gaiety and her unaffectedness, her enthusiasm and that obvious artistic temperament which caused her to feel every sensation with superlative keenness and thoroughness. "'What is he like?' she insisted. "'That, Mademoiselle,' he replied, "'I am not at liberty to tell you.' "'Not at liberty to tell me,' she exclaimed, "'but, Monsieur, if I command you, at risk of falling forever under the ban of your displeasure, Mademoiselle, I would still remain silent on that subject.' She gazed on him with obvious astonishment. It was quite an unusual thing for this spoilt darling of an admiring public to be thus openly thwarted in her whims. "'How tiresome and pedantic,' she said with a shrug of her pretty shoulders and a mood of discontent. "'And oh, how un-gallant! You have learned ugly English ways, Monsieur. For there, I am told, men hold their women kind and very scant esteem.' "'There,' she added, turning with a mock air of hopelessness towards debats, "'am I not the most unlucky woman? For the past two years I have used my best endeavours to catch sight of that interesting scarlet pimpenel. Here do I meet Monsieur who actually knows him,' so he says, and he is so un-gallant that he even refuses to satisfy the first cravings of my just curiosity." "'Citizen Saint-Just will tell you nothing now, mademoiselle,' rejoined debats with his good-humoured laugh. "'It is my presence, I assure you, which is setting a seal upon his lips. He is, believe me, aching to confide in you, to share in your enthusiasm and to see your beautiful eyes glowing in response to his ardour when he describes to you the exploits of that prince of heroes. "'Ain't it that it one day you will, I know, worm every secret out of my discreet friend Armand.'" Mademoiselle made no comment on this. That is to say, no audible comment. But she buried the whole of her face for a few seconds among the flowers, and Armand from amongst those flowers caught sight of a pair of very bright brown eyes which shone on him with a puzzled look. She said nothing more about the scarlet pimpenel or about England just then, but after a while she began talking of more indifferent subjects—the state of the weather, the price of food, the discomforts of her own house, now that the servants had been put on perfect equality with their masters. Armand soon gathered that the burning questions of the day, the horrors of massacres, the raging turmoil of politics, had not affected her very deeply as yet. She had not troubled her pretty head very much about the social and humanitarian aspect of the present seething revolution. She did not really wish to think about it at all. An artiste to her fingertips, she was spending her young life in earnest work, striving to attain perfection in her art, absorbed in study during the day, and in the expression of what she had learned in the evenings. The terrors of the guillotine affected her a little, but somewhat vaguely still. She had not realized that any dangers could assail her whilst she worked for the artistic delectation of the public. It was not that she did not understand what went on around her, but that her artistic temperament and her environment had kept her aloof from it all. The horrors of the place de la révolution made her shudder, but only in the same way as the tragedies of Monsieur Racine or of Sophocles which she had studied caused her to shudder, and she had exactly the same sympathy for poor Queen Marie Antoinette as she had for Mary Stuart, and shed as many tears for King Louis as she did for Polyukte. Once the bats mentioned the dauphan, but Mademoiselle put up her hand quickly, and said in a trembling voice whilst the tears gathered in her eyes, do not speak of the child to meet the bats. What can I, a lonely, hard-working woman, do to help him? I try not to think of him, for if I did, knowing my own helplessness, I feel that I could hate my countrymen and speak my bitter hatred of them across the footlights, which would be more than foolish, she added naively, for it would not help the child, and I should be sent to the guillotine. But oh, sometimes I feel that I would gladly die if only that poor little child Martyr were restored to those who love him, and given back once more to joy and happiness. But they would not take my life for his, I am afraid, she concluded, smiling through her tears. My life is of no value in comparison with his. Soon after this she dismissed her two visitors. Debats, well content with the result of this evening's entertainment, wore on her bane, bland smile on his rubricant face. Armand, somewhat serious and not a little in love, made the hand-kiss with which he took his leave last as long as he could. You will come and see me again, citizen Saint-Just, she asked, after that preliminary leave-taking. At your service, Mademoiselle, he replied with alacrity, how long do you stay in Paris? I may be called away at any time. Well, then, come to-morrow. I shall be free towards four o'clock. Square du Roule. You cannot miss the house. Anyone there will tell you where lives citizen S. Lange. At your service, Mademoiselle, he replied. The words sounded empty and meaningless, but his eyes, as they took final leave of her, spoke the gratitude and the joy which he felt. CHAPTER V THE TEMPLE PRISON It was close on midnight when the two friends finally parted company outside the doors of the theatre. The night air struck with biting keenness against them when they emerged from the stuffy, overheated building, and both wrapped their caped cloaks tightly round their shoulders. Armand, more than ever now, was anxious to rid himself of debats. The Gascons' platitudes irritated him beyond the bounds of forbearance, and he wanted to be alone so that he might think over the events of this night—the chief event, being a little lady with an enchanting voice and the most fascinating brown eyes he had ever seen. Self-reproach, too, was fighting a fairly even fight with the excitement that had been called up by that same pair of brown eyes. Armand, for the past four or five hours, had acted in direct opposition to the earnest advice given to him by his chief. He had renewed one friendship which had been far better left in oblivion, and he had made an acquaintance which already was leading him along a path that he felt sure his comrade would disapprove. But the path was so profusely streamed with scented narcissi, that Armand's sensitive conscience was quickly lulled to rest by the intoxicating fragrance. Looking neither to right nor left, he made his way very quickly up the rubricial year toward the Montmartre quarter where he lodged. Debats stood and watched him for as long as the dim lights of the street lamps illumined his slim, soberly clad figure. Then he turned on his heel and walked off in the opposite direction. His florid, pock-marked face wore an air of contentment, not altogether unmixed with a kind of spiteful triumph. So, my pretty scarnet pimpinal, he muttered between his closed lips, you wish to meddle in my affairs, to have for yourself and your friends the credit and glory of snatching the golden prize from the clutches of these murderous brutes. Well, we shall see, we shall see which is the wileiest, the French ferret, or the English fox. He walked deliberately away from the busy part of the town, turning his back on the river, stepping out briskly straight before him, and swinging his gold-headed cane as he walked. The streets which he had to traverse were silent and deserted, save occasionally where a drinking or an eating-house had its swing-doors still inviting the open. From these places, as debats strode rapidly by, came the sounds of loud voices, rendered raucous by outdoor oratory, volleys of oaths hurled irreverently in the midst of impassioned speeches, interruptions from rowdy audiences that vied with the speaker in invectives and blasphemies, wordy warfare that ended in noisy vituperations, accusations hurled through the air heavy with tobacco smoke, and the fumes of cheap wines and of raw spirits. Debats took no heed of these as he passed, anxious only that the crowd of eating-house politicians did not, as often was its want, turn out pel-mel into the street and settle its quarrel by the weight of fists. He did not wish to be embroiled in a street-fight, which invariably ended in denunciations and arrests, and was glad when presently he had left the perlues of the baleroyal behind him, and could strike on his left toward the lonely fourbour du temple. From the dim distance far away came at intervals the mournful sound of a roll of muffled drums, half veiled by the intervening hubbub of the busy night-life of the great city. It proceeded from the place de la Révolution, where a company of the National Guard wore our night-watch round the guillotine. The dull, intermittent notes of the drum came as a reminder to the free people of France that the watchdog of Advengeful Revolution was alert night and day, never sleeping, ever wakeful, beating up game for the guillotine, as the new decree framed to-day by the government of the people had ordered that it should do. From time to time now the silence of this lonely street was broken by a sudden cry of terror, followed by the clash of arms, the inevitable volley of oaths, the call for help, the final moan of anguish. They were the ever recurring brief tragedies which told of denunciations, of domiciliary search, of sudden arrests, of an agonizing desire for life and for freedom, for life under the same horrible conditions of brutality and of servitude, for freedom to breathe, if only a day or two longer, this air polluted by filth and by blood. Debats, hardened to these scenes, paid no heed to them. He had heard it so often, that cry in the night, followed by death-like silence. It came from comfortable bourgeois homes, from squalid lodgings, or lonely cul-de-sac, wherever some hunted quarry was run to earth by the newly organized spies of the Committee of General Security. Five and thirty levera for every head that falls trunkless into the basket at the foot of the guillotine. Five and thirty pieces of silver, now as then, the price of innocent blood. Every cry in the night, every call for help, meant game for the guillotine, and five and thirty levera in the hands of a Judas. And a bat's walked on unmoved by what he saw and heard, swinging his cane and looking satisfied. Now he struck into the Place de la Victoire, and looked on one of the open-air camps that had recently been established, where men, women and children were working to provide arms and a coutrement for the republican army that was fighting the whole of Europe. The people of France were up in arms against tyranny, and on the open places of their mighty city they were encamped day and night, forging those arms which were destined to make them free, and in the meantime were bending under a yoke of tyranny more complete, more grinding and absolute than any that the most despotic kings had ever dared to inflict. Here by the light of resin torches at this late hour of the night, raw lads were being drilled into soldiers, half-naked under the cutting blast of the north wind, their knees shaking under them, their arms and legs blue with cold, their stomachs empty, and their teeth chattering with fear. Women were sewing shirts for the great improvised army, with eyes straining to see the stitches by the flickering light of the torches, their throats parched with the continual inhaling of smoke-laden air. Even children, with weak clumsy little fingers, were picking rags to be woven into cloth again. All—all these slaves were working far into the night, tired, hungry and cold, but working unceasingly as the country had demanded it. The people of France in arms against tyranny. The people of France had to set to work to make arms to clothe the soldiers, the defenders of the people's liberty. And from this crowd of people, men, women and children, there came scarcely a sound, save raucous whispers, a moan or a sigh quickly suppressed. A grim silence reigned in this thickly peopled camp. Only the crackling of the torches broke that silence now and then, or the flapping of canvas in the wintry gale. They worked on, sullen, desperate and starving, with no hope of payment save the miserable rations wrung from poor tradespeople or miserable farmers, as wretched, as oppressed as themselves. No hope of payment, only fear of punishment, for that was ever present. The people of France in arms against tyranny were not allowed to forget that grim task-master with the two great hands stretched upwards, holding the knife which descended mercilessly, indiscriminately on necks that did not bend willingly to the task. A grim look of gratified desire had spread over Debatts's face as he skirted the open air-camp. Let them toil, let them groan, let them starve. The more these clout suffer, the more brutal the heel that grinds them down, the sooner will the emperor's money accomplish its work, the sooner will these wretches be clamouring for the monarchy, which would mean a rich reward in Debatts's pockets. To him everything now was for the best, the tyranny, the brutality, the massacres. He gloated in the Holocaust with as much satisfaction as did the most bloodthirsty Jacobin in the convention. He would with his own hands have wielded the guillotine that worked too slowly for his ends. Let that end justify the means, was his motto. What matter if the future king of France walked up to his throne over steps made of headless corpses and rendered slippery with the blood of martyrs? The ground beneath Debatts's feet was hard and white with the frost. Overhead the pale, wintry moon looked down serene and placid on this giant city wallowing in an ocean of misery. There had been but little snow as yet this year, and the cold was intense. On his right now the Sintiard des Eses. Innocents lay peaceful and still beneath the one light of the moon. A thin covering of snow lay evenly alike on grass mounds and smooth stones. Here and there a broken cross with chipped arms still held pathetically outstretched as if in a final appeal for human love bore mute testimony to senseless excesses in spiteful desire for destruction. But here within the precincts of the dwelling of the eternal master a solemn silence reigned. Only the cold north wind shook the branches of the Eew causing them to send forth a melancholy sigh into the night and to shed a shower of tiny crystals of snow like the frozen tears of the dead. And round the precincts of the lonely graveyard and down narrow streets or open places the night watchmen went their rounds lantern in hand and every five minutes their monotonous call rang clearly out in the night. Sleep, citizens, everything is quiet and at peace. We may take it that debates did not philosophize over much on what went on around him. He had walked swiftly up the Roussein-Martin, then turning sharply to his right he found himself beneath the tall frowning walls of the temple prison the grim guardian of so many secrets such terrible despair such unspeakable tragedies. Here too as in the Place de la Révolution an intermittent role of muffled drums proclaimed the ever watchful presence of the National Guard. But with that exception not a sound stirred round the grim and stately edifice there were no cries no calls no appeals around its walls all the crying and wailing were shut in by the massive stone that told no tales. Dim and flickering lights shone behind several of the small windows in the façade of the huge labyrinthine building without any hesitation debates turned down the rue du temple and soon found himself in front of the main gates which gave on the courtyard beyond. The sentinel challenged him but he had the password and explained that he desired to have speech with citizen Heron. With a surly gesture the guard pointed to the heavy bell-pull up against the gate and debates pulled it with all his might. The long clang of the brazen bell echoed and re-echoed round the solid stone walls. A non-tiny Judas in the gate was cautiously pushed open and a peremptory voice once again challenged the midnight intruder. Debats more peremptorily this time asked for citizen Heron with whom he had immediate and important business and a glimmer of a piece of silver which he held up close to the Judas secured him the necessary admittance. The massive gates slowly swung open on their creaking hinges and as debates passed beneath the archway they closed again behind him. The concierge's lodge was immediately on his left. Again he was challenged and again he gave the password but his face was apparently known here for no serious hindrance to proceed was put in his way. A man whose wide lean frame was but ill covered by a threadbare coat and ragged britches and with soulless shoes on his feet was told off to direct the situaillant to citizen Heron's rooms. The man walked slowly along with bent knees and arched spine and shuffled his feet as he walked. The bunch of keys which he carried rattled ominously in his long grimy hands. The passengers were badly lighted and he also carried a lantern to guide himself on the way. Closely followed by Debats he soon turned into the central corridor which is open to the sky above and was spectrally alight now with flagstones and walls gleaming beneath the silvery sheen of the moon and throwing back the fantastic elongated shadows of the two men as they walked. On the left heavily barred windows gave on the corridor, as did here and there the massive open doors with their gigantic hinges and bolts, on the steps of which squatted groups of soldiers wrapped in their cloaks, with wild suspicious eyes beneath their capotes, peering at the midnight visitor as he passed. There was no thought of silence here. The very walls seemed alive with sounds, groans and tears, loud wails and murmured prayers. They exuded from the stones and trembled on the frost-laden air. Occasionally at one of the windows a pair of white hands would appear grasping the heavy iron bar, trying to shake it in its socket, and may hap above the hands the dim vision of a haggard face, a man's or a woman's, trying to get a glimpse of the outside world, a final look at the sky before the last journey to the place of death to-morrow. Then one of the soldiers with a loud, angry oath would struggle to his feet and with the butt end of his gun strike at the thin, one fingers till their hold on the iron bar relaxed, and the pallid face beyond would sink back into the darkness with a desperate cry of pain. A quick, impatient sigh escaped Abat's lips. He had skirted the wide courtyard in the wake of his guide, and from where he was you could see the great central tower with its tiny windows lighted from within, the grim walls behind which the descendant of the world's conquerors, the bearer of the proudest name in Europe, and wearer of its most ancient crown, had spent the last days of his brilliant life in abject shame, sorrow, and degradation. The memory had swiftly surged up before him of that night, when he all but rescued King Louis and his family from this same miserable prison. The guard had been bribed, the keeper corrupted, everything had been prepared, save the reckoning with the one irresponsible factor. Chance. He had failed then, and had tried again, and again had failed. A fortune had been his reward if he had succeeded. He had failed. But even now when his footsteps echoed along the flagged courtyard over which an unfortunate king and queen had walked on their way to their last ignominious calvary, he hugged himself with a satisfying thought that where he had failed, at least no one else had succeeded. Whether that meddlesome English adventurer who called himself the Scarlet Pimpernel had planned the rescue of King Louis or of Queen Marie Antoinette at any time or not, that he did not know. But on one point at least he was more than ever determined, and that was that no power on earth should snatch from him the golden prize offered by Austria for the rescue of the little Dauphin. I would sooner see the child perish if I cannot save him myself, was the burning thought in this man's torturous brain, and let that accursed Englishman look to himself and to his damned confederates, he added, muttering a fierce oath beneath his breath. A winding narrow stone stair, another length or two of corridor, and his guide's shuffling footsteps paused beside a low iron-studded door led into the solid stone. Debats dismissed his ill-clothed guide and pulled the iron bell handle which hung beside the door. The bell gave forth a dull and broken clang which seemed like an echo of the wails of sorrow that peopled the huge building with their weird and monotonous sounds. Debats, a thoroughly unimaginative person, waited patiently beside the door until it was opened from within, and he was confronted by a tall, stooping figure, wearing a greasy coat of snuff-brown cloth, and holding high above his head a lantern that threw its feeble light on Debats's jovial face and form. It is even I, Citizen Heron, he said, breaking in swiftly on the other's ejaculation of astonishment, which threatened to send his name echoing the whole length of corridors and passages, until round every corner of the labyrinthine house of sorrow the murmur would be born on the wings of the cold night breeze. Citizen Heron is in parley with Cedavant Barren Debats. A fact which would have been equally unpleasant for both these worthies. Enter, said Heron, curtly. He banged the heavy door, too, behind his visitor, and a bat, who seemed to know his way about the place, walked straight across the narrow landing to where a smaller door stood invitingly open. He stepped boldly in, the while Citizen Heron put the lantern down on the floor of the couloir, and then followed his nocturnal visitor into the room. Chapter 6 The Committee's Agent It was a narrow, ill-ventilated place, with but one barred window that gave on the courtyard, an evil-smelling lamp hung by a chain from the grimy ceiling, and in a corner of the room a tiny iron stove shared more unpleasant vapor than warm glow around. There was but little furniture, two or three chairs, a table which was littered with papers, and a corner cupboard, the open doors of which revealed a miscellaneous collection, bundles of papers, a tin saucepan, a piece of cold sausage, and a couple of pistols. The fumes of stale tobacco smoke hovered in the air, and mingled most unpleasantly with those of the lamp above and of the mildew that penetrated through the walls just below the roof. Heron pointed to one of the chairs, and then sat down on the other, close to the table, on which he rested his elbow. He picked up a short-stemmed pipe, which he had evidently laid aside at the sound of the bell, and having taken several deliberate, long-drawn puffs from it, he said abruptly, Well, what is it now? In the meanwhile, the Bads had made himself as much at home in this uncomfortable room as he possibly could. He had deposited his hat and cloak on one rickety, rush-bottomed chair, and drawn another close to the fire. He sat down with one leg crossed over the other, his poggy, beringed hand, wandering with loving gentleness down the length of his shapely calf. He was nothing if not complacent, and his complacency seemed highly to irritate his friend, Heron. Well, what is it? reiterated the latter, drawing his visitor's attention roughly to himself by banging his fist on the table. Out with it! What do you want? Why have you come at this hour of the night to compromise me, I suppose, bringing your own damned neck and mine into the same noose, what? Easy, easy, my friend, responded to Bads imperturbably. Waste not so much time in idle talk. Why do I usually come to see you? Surely you have had no cause to complain hitherto of the unprofitableness of my visits to you. They will have to be still more profitable to me in the future, growled the other across the table. I have more power now. I know you have, said de Bats, suavely. The new decree, what? You may denounce whom you please, search whom you please, arrest whom you please, and send whom you please to the supreme tribunal without giving them the slightest chance of escape. Is it in order to tell me all this that you have come to see me at this hour of the night? queried Heron with a sneer. No, I came at this hour of the night because I surmised that in the future you and your hellhounds would be so busy all day beating up game for the guillotine, that the only time you would have at the disposal of your friends would be the late hours of the night. I saw you at the theatre a couple of hours ago, friend Heron. I didn't think to find you yet a bed. Well, what do you want? Rather, retorted de Bats blandly, shall we say, What do you want, citizen Heron? For what? For my continued immunity of the hands of yourself and your pack. Heron pushed his chair brusquely aside, and strode across the narrow room deliberately facing the portly figure of de Bats, who, with head slightly inclined on one side, his small eyes narrowed till the appeared mere slits in his pockmarked face, was steadily and quite placidly contemplating this inhuman monster who had this very day been given uncontrolled power over hundreds of thousands of human lives. Heron was one of those tall men who look mean in spite of their height. His head was small and narrow, and his hair, which was sparse and lank, fell in untidy strands across his forehead. He stooped slightly from the neck, and his chest, though wide, was hollow between the shoulders. But his legs were big and bony, slightly bent at the knees, like those of an ill-conditioned horse. His face was thin and the cheeks sunken. The eyes, very large and prominent, had a look in them of cold, ferocious cruelty, a look which contrasted strangely with the weakness and petty greed apparent in the mouth, which was flabby, with full, very red lips and chin that sloped away to the long, thin neck. Even at this moment, as he gazed on de Bats, the greed and the cruelty in him were fighting one of those battles the issue of which is always uncertain in men of his stamp. I don't know, he said slowly, that I am prepared to treat with you any longer. You are an intolerable bit of vermin that has annoyed the committee of general security for over two years now. It would be excessively pleasant to crush you once and for all, as one would a buzzing fly. Pleasant, perhaps, but immeasurably foolish, rejoined de Bats coolly. You will only get thirty-five levore for my head, and I offer you ten times that amount for the self-same commodity. I know, I know, but the whole thing has become too dangerous. Why? I am very modest. I don't ask a great deal. Let your hounds keep off my scent. You have too many damned confederates. Oh! Never mind about the others. I am not bargaining about them. Let them look after themselves. Every time we get a bat of them, one or the other denounces you. Under torture, I know, rejoined de Bats placidly, holding his poggy hands to the warm glow of the fire. For you have started torture in your house of justice now, eh, friend Heron? You and your friend, the public prosecutor, have gone the whole gamut of devourier. What's that to you? Retorted the other gruffly. Oh! Nothing, nothing! I was even proposing to pay you three thousand five hundred levore for the privilege of taking no further interest in what goes on inside this prison. Three thousand five hundred! ejaculated Heron involuntarily, and this time even his eyes lost their cruelty. They joined issue with the mouth in an expression of hungering avarice. Two little zeros added to the thirty-five, which is all you would get for handing me over to your accursed tribunal, said de Bats. And as if thoughtlessly, his hand wandered to the inner pocket of his coat, and a slight rustle as a thin, crisp paper brought drops of moisture to the lips of Heron. Leave me alone for three weeks, and the money is yours, concluded de Bats pleasantly. There was silence in the room now. Through the narrow, barred window, the steely rays of the moon, fought with the dim yellow light of the oil lamp, and lit up the pale face of the committee's agent, with its lines of cruelty and sharp conflict with those of greed. Well, is it a bargain? asked de Bats, at last in his usual smooth, oily voice, as he half drew from out of his pocket that tempting little bundle of crisp, printed paper. You have only to give me the usual receipt for the money, and it is yours. Heron gave a vicious snarl. It is dangerous, I tell you. That receipt, if it falls into some cursed meddler's hands, would send me straight to the guillotine. The receipt could only fall into alien hands, rejoined de Bats blandly, if I happen to be arrested, and even in that case they could but fall into those of the chief agent of the committee of general security, and he half name, Heron. You must take some risks, my friend. I take them, too. We are in each other's hands. The bargain is quite fair. For a moment or two longer, Heron appeared to be hesitating whilst de Bats watched him with keen intentness. He had no doubt himself as to the issue. He had tried most of these patriots in his own golden crucible, and had weighed their patriotism against Austrian money, and had never found the latter wanting. He had not been here to-night, if he were not quite sure. This inveterate conspirator in the royalist cause never took personal risks. He looked on Heron now, smiling to himself the while with perfect satisfaction. Very well, said the committee's agent with sudden decision, I'll take the money, but on one condition. What is it? That you leave little Capay alone. The Dauphin? Call him what you like, said Heron, taking a step nearer to de Bats, and from his great hide glowering down in fierce hatred and rage upon his accomplice. Call the young devil what you like, but leave us to deal with him. To kill him, you mean? Well, how can I prevent it, my friend? You and your like are always plotting to get him out of here. I won't have it. I tell you, I won't have it. If the brat disappears, I am a dead man. Robb Spear and his gang have told me as much, so you leave him alone, or I'll not raise a finger to help you, but will lay my own hands on your accursed neck. He looked so ferocious and so merciless, then, that despite himself, the selfish adventurer, the careless self-seeking intriguer, shuddered with a quick wave of un-reasoning terror. He turned away from Heron's piercing gaze, the gaze of a hyena whose prey is being snatched from beneath its nails. For a moment he stared thoughtfully into the fire. He heard the other man's heavy footsteps cross and recross the narrow room, and was conscious of the long-curved shadow creeping up the mildewed wall, or retreating down upon the carpetless floor. Suddenly, without any warning, he felt a grip upon his shoulder. He gave a start, and almost uttered a cry of alarm which caused Heron to laugh. The committee's agent was vastly amused at his friend's obvious access of fear. There was nothing that he liked better than that he should inspire dread in the hearts of all those with whom he came in contact. I am just going on my usual nocturnal round, he said abruptly. Come with me, citizen-debats. A certain grim humour was apparent in his face as he preferred this invitation, which sounded like a rough command. As debats seemed to hesitate, he nodded prematurely to him to follow. Already he had gone into the hall and picked up his lantern. From beneath his waistcoat he drew forth a bunch of keys, which he rattled impatiently, calling to his friend to come. Come, citizen," he said roughly, I wish to show you the one treasure in this house which your damned fingers must not touch. Mechanically, debats rose at last. He tried to be a master of the terror which was invading his very bones. He would not own to himself even that he was afraid, and almost audibly he kept murmuring to himself that he had no cause for fear. Heron would never touch him. The spy's avarice, his greed of money, were a perfect safeguard for any man who had the control of millions, and Heron knew, of course, that he could make of this inveterate plotter a comfortable source of revenue for himself. Three weeks would soon be over, and fresh bargains could be made time and again while debats was alive and free. Heron was still waiting at the door, even whilst debats wondered what this nocturnal visitation would reveal to him of atrocity and of outrage. He made a final effort to master his nervousness, wrapped his cloak tightly around him, and followed his host out of the room. The moans, the curses which spoke of tragedies that he could only guess. Heron was walking on ahead of him, preceding him by some fifty meters or so, his long legs covering the distances more rapidly than debats could follow them. The latter knew his way well about the old prison. Few men in Paris possessed that accurate knowledge of its intricate passages and its network of cells and halls which debats had acquired after close and persevering study. He himself could have led Heron to the doors of the tower where the little dove firm was being kept imprisoned, but unfortunately he did not possess the keys that would open all the doors which led to it. There were sentinels at every gate, groups of soldiers at each end of every corridor. The great, now empty courtyards thronged with prisoners in the daytime were alive with soldiery even now. Some walked up and down with fixed bayonet on shoulder, others sat in groups on the stone copings or squatted on the ground, smoking or playing cards, but all of them were alert and watchful. Heron was recognized everywhere the moment he appeared, and though in these days of equality no one presented arms, nevertheless every guard stood aside to let him pass, or when necessary, opened a gate for the powerful chief agent of the Committee of General Security. Indeed, debats had no keys such as these to open the way for him to the presence of the martyred little king. Thus the two men wended their way on in silence, one preceding the other. Debats walked leisurely, thoughtfully, taking stock of everything he saw—the gates, the barriers, the positions of sentinels and warders—of everything in fact that might prove a help or a hindrance presently when the great enterprise would be hazarded. At last, still in the wake of Heron, he found himself once more behind the main entrance gate, underneath the archway on which gave the guichet of the concierge. Here, too, there seemed to be an unnecessary number of soldiers. Two were doing sentinel outside the guichet, but there were others in a file against the wall. Heron rapped with his keys against the door of the concierge's lodge. Then, as it was not immediately open from within, he pushed it open with his foot. The concierge? He queried peremptorily. From a corner of the small panelled room there came a grunt and a reply. Gone to bed, qua. The man who previously had guided debats to Heron's door slowly struggled to his feet. He had been squatting somewhere in the gloom, and had been roused by Heron's rough command. He slouched forward now, still carrying a boot in one hand, and a blacking-brush in the other. "'Take this lantern, then,' said the chief agent, with a snarl directed the sleeping concierge, and come along. "'Why are you still here?' he added, as if in afterthought. The citizen concierge was not satisfied with the way I had done his boots,' muttered the man with an evil leer as he spat contemptuously on the floor. "'And are they still, qua?' "'A hell of a place this. Twenty cells to sweep out every day, and boots to clean for every aris door of a concierge or warder who demands it. Is that work for a free-born patriot,' I ask. "'Well, if you are not satisfied, sitoyan du bon,' retorted Heron dryly, "'you may go when you like. You know there are plenty of others ready to do your work. Nineteen hours a day, and nineteen sous by way of payment. I've had fourteen days of this convict work.' He continued to mutter under his breath, whilst Heron, paying no further heed to him, turned abruptly towards a group of soldiers stationed outside. "'An avant corporal,' he said. "'Bring four men with you. We go up to the tower.' The small procession was formed. On ahead the lantern-bearer, with arched spine and shaking knees, dragging shuffling footsteps along the corridor, then the corporal with two of his soldiers, then Heron closely followed by the bats, and finally two more soldiers bringing up the rear. Heron had given the bunch of keys to the man du bon. The latter on ahead, holding the lantern aloft, opened one gate after another. At each gate he waited for the little procession to file through, then he relocked the gate and passed on. Up two or three flights of winding stairs set in the solid stone, and the final heavy door was reached. Debats was meditating. Heron's precautions for the safeguarding of the most precious life in Europe were more complete than he had anticipated. What lavish liberality would be required? What superhuman ingenuity and boundless courage in order to break down all the barriers that had been set up around that young life that flickered inside this grim tower? Of these three requisites the corpulent complacent intrigue possessed only the first in a considerable degree. He could be exceedingly liberal with the foreign money which he had at his disposal. As for courage and ingenuity, he believed that he possessed both, but these qualities had not served him in very good stead in the attempts which he had made at different times to rescue the unfortunate members of the royal family from prison. His overwhelming egotism would not admit for a moment that in ingenuity and pluck the scarlet pimpanel and his English followers could outdo him, but he did wish to make quite sure that they would not interfere with him in the highly remunerative work of saving the Dauphin. Heron's impatient call roused him from these meditations. The little party had come to a halt outside a massive, iron-studded door. At a sign from the chief agent, the soldier stood at attention. He then called to bats in the lantern-bearer to him. He took a key from his massive bridge's pocket, and with his own hand unlocked the massive door. He curtly ordered the lantern-bearer and the bats to go through. Then he himself went in, and finally once more re-locked the door behind him, the soldier's remaining on guard on the landing outside. Now the three men were standing in a square ante-chamber, dank and dark, devoid of furniture safe for a large cupboard that filled the whole of one wall. The others, mildewed and stained, were covered with a grayish paper, which here and there hung away in strips. Heron crossed this ante-chamber, and with his knuckles wrapped against a small door opposite. Hola! he shouted. From the inner room came the sound of voices, a man's and a woman's, and now, as if in response to Heron's call, the shrill tones of a child. There were some shuffling, too, of footsteps, and some pushing about of furniture. Then the door was opened, and a gruff voice invited the belated visitors to enter. The atmosphere in this further room was so thick that at first the bats was only conscious of the evil smells that pervaded it—smells which were made up of the fumes of tobacco, of burning coke, of a smoky lamp, and of stale food, and mingling through it all the pungent odour of raw spirits. Heron had stepped briskly in, closely followed by debats. The man du pont, with a matter of satisfaction, put down his lantern and curled himself up in a corner of the ante-chamber. His interest in the spectacle so favoured by citizen Heron had apparently been exhausted by constant repetition. Debats looked round him with keen curiosity, which disgust was ready enough to mingle. The room itself might have been a large one. It was almost impossible to judge of its size, so crammed was it with heavy and light furniture of every conceivable shape and type. There was a monumental wooden bed-stead in one corner, a huge sofa covered in black horses in another. A large table stood in the centre of the room, and there were at least four capacious arm-chairs rounded. There were wardrobes and cabinets, a diminutive wash stand, and a huge pier-glass. There were innumerable boxes and packing cases, cane-bottomed chairs and what-nots everywhere. The place looked like a depot for second-hand furniture. In the midst of all the litter, debats at last became conscious of two people who stood staring at him in a Terran. He saw a man before him, somewhat fleshy of build, with smooth, mouse-coloured hair brushed away from a central parting, and ending in a heavy curl above each ear. The eyes were wide open and pale in colour, the lips unusually thick and with a marked downward droop. Close beside him stood a youngish-looking woman, whose unwieldy bulk, however, and pallid skin, revealed the sedentary life and the ravages of ill-health. Both appeared to regard Heron with a certain amount of awe, and debats with a vast measure of curiosity. Suddenly the woman stood aside, and in the far corner of the room there was displayed to the Gascon Royalist's cold, calculating gaze, the pathetic figure of the uncrowned King of France. How is it that Capet is not yet in bed? queried Heron as soon as he caught sight of the child. He wouldn't say his prayers this evening, replied Simon with a coarse laugh, and he wouldn't drink his medicine. Pah! he added with a snarl. This is a place for dogs, and not for human folk. If you are not satisfied, mom-viewer, retorted Heron curtly, you can send in your resignation when you like. There are plenty who will be glad of the place. The ex-cobbler gave another surly growl, and expectorated on the floor in the direction where stood the child. Little vermin! he said, he's more trouble than man or woman can bear. The boy in the meanwhile seemed to take but little notice of the vulgar insults put upon him by his guardian. He stood, a quaint, impassive little figure, more interested apparently in debats, who was a stranger to him, than in the three others whom he knew. Debats noted that the child looked well nourished, and that he was warmly clad in a rough woollen shirt with cloth breeches, with coarse gray stockings and thick shoes. But he also saw that the clothes were indescribably filthy, as were the child's hands and face. The golden curls, among which a young and queenly mother had once loved to pass her slender perfumed fingers, now hung bedraggled, greasy, and lank around the little face, from the lines of which every trace of dignity and of simplicity had long since been erased. There was no look of the martyr about this child now, even though may have, his small back had often smarted under his vulgar tutor's rough blows. Rather did the pale young face wear the air of sullen indifference and an abject desire to please, which would have appeared heartbreaking to any spectator less self-seeking and egotistic than this gas-gone conspirator. Madame Simon had called him to her while her man and the citizen Heron were talking, and the child went readily enough, without any sign of fear. She took the corner of her coarse, dirty apron in her hand, and wiped the boy's mouth and face with it. I can't keep him clean," she said with an apologetic shrug of the shoulders, and a look at the bats. There now, she added, speaking once more to the child, drink like a good boy and say your lesson to please mamma, and then you shall go to bed. She took a glass from the table, which was filled with a clear liquid, that the bats at first took to be water, and held it to the boy's lips. He turned his head away and began to whimper. Is the medicine very nasty? queried the bats. Well, dear, but no, citizen, exclaimed the woman. It is good, strong, all de vie. The best that can be procured. Capay likes it, really, don't you, Capay? It makes you happy and cheerful, and sleep well of nights. Why, you had a glass for yesterday and enjoyed it. Take it now," she added in a quick whisper, seeing that Simon and Heron were in close conversation together. You know it makes papa angry if you don't have at least a half a glass now and then. The child wavered for a moment longer, making a quaint little grimace of distaste. But at last he seemed to make up his mind that it was wisest to yield over so small a matter, and he took the glass from Madame Simon. And thus did the bats see the descendant of Saint-Louis quaffing a glass of raw spirit at the bidding of a rough cobbler's wife, whom he called by the fond and foolish name sacred to childhood, Mamon. Selfish ego is though he was, the bats turned away in loathing. Simon had watched the little seam with obvious satisfaction. He chuckled audibly when the child drank the spirit, and called Heron's attention to him, whilst a look of triumph lit up his wide, pale eyes. "'And now, Montpety,' he said jovially, "'let the citizen hear you say your prayers.'" He winked towards the bats, evidently anticipating a good deal of enjoyment for the visitor from what was coming. From a heap of litter in a corner of the room he fetched out a greasy red bonnet adored with a tri-colour coquette, and a soiled and tattered flag, which had once been white, and had a golden, fleur-de-lis embroidered upon it. The cap he set on the child's head, and the flag he threw upon the floor. "'Now, Capay, your prayers,' he said, with another chuckle of amusement. All his movements were rough, and his speech almost ostentatiously coarse. He banged against the furniture as he moved about the room, kicking a footstool out of the way or knocking over a chair. Debats instinctively thought of the perfumed stillness of the rooms at Versailles, of the army of elegant, high-born ladies who administered to the wants of this child, who stood there now before him, a cap on his yellow hair, and his shoulder held up to his ear without gesture of careless indifference peculiar to children when they are sullen or uncared for. Obediently, quite mechanically, it seemed, the boy trod on the flag which Henri IV had borne before him at Yves-Rey, and le Roi Soleil had flaunted in the face of the armies of Europe. The son of the Bourbons was spitting on their flag and wiping his shoes upon its tattered foals. With shrill-cracked voice he sang the Carmagnol. "'Saire, saire, les aristoles à l'interne,' until Debats himself felt inclined to stop his ears and to rush from the place in horror. Louis XVII, whom the hearts of many had proclaimed King of France by the grace of God, the child of the Bourbons, the eldest son of the church, was stepping a vulgar dance over the flag of Saint-Louis, which he had been taught to defile. His pale cheeks glowed as he danced, his eyes shone with the unnatural light kindled in them by the intoxicating liquor. With one slender hand he waved the red cap with the tricolor cockade, and shouted, Vive la République! Madame Simon was clapping her hands, looking on the child with obvious pride, and a kind of rough maternal affection. Simon was gazing on harem for approval, and the latter nodded his head, murmuring words of encouragement and of praise. "'Vicaticism now, Capay, thy catechism,' shouted Simon, in a hoarse voice. The boy stood at attention, cap on head, hands on his hips, legs wide apart, and feet firmly planted on the fleur de l'île, the glory of his forefathers. "'Thy name?' queried Simon. "'Louis Capay,' replied the child in a clear, high-pitched voice. "'What art thou? A citizen of the Republic of France.' "'What was thy father?' "'Louis Capay, c'est devant-king, a tyrant who perished by the will of the people.' "'What was thy mother?' "'Euh!' Debats involuntarily uttered a cry of horror. Whatever the man's private character was, he had been bored at gentlemen, and his every instinct revolted against what he saw and heard. The scene had positively sickened him. He turned precipitately towards the door. "'How now, citizen?' queried the committee's agent with a sneer. "'Are you not satisfied with what you see?' May have the citizen would like to see Capay sitting in a golden chair, interposed Simon the cobbler with a sneer, and me and my wife kneeling, kissing his hand. "'What?' "'Tis the heat of the room,' stammered Debats, who was fumbling with the lock of the door. My head began to swim. Spit on the accursed flag, then, like a good patriot, like Capay,' retorted Simon, gruffly. "'Here, Capay, my son,' he added, pulling the boy by the arm with a rough gesture. Get thee to bed. Thou art quite drunk enough to satisfy any good Republican.' By way of a caress he tweaked the boy's ear and gave him a prod in the back with his bent knee. He was not willfully unkind, for just now he was not angry with the lad. Rather he was vastly amused with the effect Capay's prayer and Capay's recital of his catechism had had on the visitor. As to the lad, the intensity of excitement in him was immediately followed by an overwhelming desire for sleep. Without any preliminary of undressing or of washing, he tumbled, just as he was, onto the sofa. Madame Simon, with quite pleasing solicitude, arranged a pillow under his head, and the very next moment the child was fast asleep. "'Tis well, citoyen Simon,' said Heron in his turn, going towards the door. I'll report favourably on you to the Committee of Public Security. As for the citoyenne, she had best be more careful, turning to the woman's Simon with a snarl on his evil face. It was no cause to arrange a pillow under the head of that vermin's spawn. Many good patriots have no pillows to put under their heads. Take that pillow away, and I don't like the shoes on the brat's feet. Sabot are quite good enough." Citoyen's Simon made no reply. Some sort of retort had apparently hovered on her lips, but had been checked, even before it was uttered, by a peremptory look from her husband. Simon the cobbler, snarling in speech but obsequious in manner, prepared to accompany the citizen agent to the door. Debats was taking a last look at the sleeping child. The uncrowned King of France was wrapped in a drunken sleep, with the last spoken insult upon his dead mother still hovering on his childish lips. It was his turn to be complacent now. Debats, for once in his life, cowed by what he had seen, still wore a look of horror and disgust upon his floored face. What devils you all are, he said at last? We are good patriots, retorted Heron, and the tyrant's spawn leads but the life that hundreds of thousands of children led whilst his father oppressed the people. Nay, what am I saying? He leads a far better, far happier life. He gets plenty to eat, and plenty of warm clothes. Thousands of innocent children, who have not the crimes of a desperate father upon their conscience, have to starve whilst he grows fat. The leer in his face was so evil, that once more Debats felt that eerie feeling of terror creeping into his bones. Here were cruelty and blood-firsty ferocity personified to their utmost extent. At thought of the Bourbons, or of all those whom he considered had been in the past the oppressors of the people, Heron was nothing but a wild and ravenous beast, hungering for revenge, longing to bury his talons and his fangs into the body of those whose heels had once pressed on his own neck. And Debats knew that even with millions or countless money at his command, he could not purchase from this carnivorous brute the life and liberty of the son of King Louis. No amount of bribery would accomplish that. It would have to be ingenuity pitted against animal force, the wiliness of the fox against the power of the wolf. Even now Heron was darting savagely suspicious looks upon him. I shall get rid of the cimons, he said. There is something in that woman's face which I don't trust. They shall go within the next few hours, or as soon as I can lay my hands upon a better patriot than that mealy-mouthed cobbler. And it will be better not to have a woman about the place. Let me see. Today is Thursday, or else Friday morning. By Sunday I'll get those cimons out of the place. Me thought I saw you ogling that woman, he added, bringing his bony fist crashing down on the table so that papers, pen and ink-horn rattled loudly. And if I thought that you—debatts thought it well at this point to finger once more nonchalantly the bundle of crisp paper in the pocket of his coat. Only on that one condition, reiterated Heron in a hoarse voice, if you try to get a capé, I'll drag you to the tribunal with my own hands. Always presuming that you can get me, my friend, murmured debatts, who was gradually regaining his accustomed composure. Already his active mind was busily at work. One or two things which he had noted in connection with his visit to the Dauphan's prison had struck him as possibly useful in his schemes. But he was disappointed that Heron was getting rid of the cimons. The woman might have been very useful and more easily got at than a man. The avarice of the French bourgeois would have proved a promising factor. But this, of course, would now be out of the question. At the same time it was not because Heron raved and stormed and uttered cries like a hyena that he—debatts—meant to give up an enterprise which, if successful, would place millions into his own pocket. As for that meddling Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpinel, and his crack-brained followers, they must be effectually swept out of the way first of all. Debatts felt that they were the real, the most likely hindrance to his schemes. He himself would have to go very cautiously to work, since apparently Heron would not allow him to purchase immunity for himself in that one matter. And whilst he was laying his plans with necessary deliberation, so as to ensure his own safety, that a cursed Scarlet Pimpinel would may have snapped the golden prize from the temple prison right under his very nose. When he thought of that, the Gascon royalist felt just as vindictive as did the chief agent of the Committee of General Security. While these thoughts were coursing through Debatts' head, Heron had been indulging in a volley of attuporation. If that little vermin escapes, he said, my life will not be worth an hour's purchase. In twenty-four hours I am a dead man thrown to the guillotine like those dogs of aristocrats. You say I am a night-bird citizen. I tell you that I do not sleep night or day thinking of that brat and the means to keep him safely under my hand. I have never trusted those simons. Not trusted them, exclaimed Debatts. Surely you could not find anywhere more inhuman monsters. Inhuman monsters! snarled Heron. Bah! They don't do their business thoroughly. We want the tyrants spawned to become a true Republican and patriot. I, to make of him such in one that even if you and your cursed Confederates got him by some hellish chance, he would be no use to you as a king, a tyrant to set above the people, to set up in your Versailles, your louvre, to eat off golden plates and wear satin clothes. You have seen the brat. By the time he is a man, he should forget how to eat, save with his fingers, and get roaring drunk every night. That's what we want. To make him so that he shall be no use to you, even if you did get him away. But you shall not. You shall not. Not if I have to strangle him with my own hands. He picked up his short-stemmed pipe and pulled savagely at it for a while. Debats was meditating. My friend, he said after a little while, you are agitating yourself quite unnecessarily, and gravely jeopardizing your prospects of getting a comfortable little income through keeping your fingers off my person. Who said I wanted to meddle with the child? You at best not, growled Heron. Exactly! You have said that before. But do you not think that you would be far wiser, instead of directing your undivided attention to my unworthy self, to turn your thoughts a little to one whom, believe me, you have far greater cause to fear. Who is that? The Englishman. You mean the man they call the Scarlet Pimpernel. Himself. Have you not suffered from his activity, friend, Heron? I fancy that Citizen Chauvelin and Citizen Collor would have quite a tale to tell about him. They ought both to have been guillotined for that blunder last autumn at Boulogne. Take care that the same accusation be not laid at your door this year, my friend," commented Debats placidly. Bah! The Scarlet Pimpernel is in Paris even now. The devil he is! And on what errant think you? There was a moment's silence, and then Debats continued with slow and dramatic emphasis—that of rescuing your most precious prisoner from the temple. How do you know? Heron queried savagely. I guessed. How? I saw a man at the Diatre Nationale to-day. Well? Who is a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel? Damn him! Where can I find him? Will you sign a receipt for the three thousand five hundred lever which I am pining to hand over to you, my friend, and I will tell you? Where is the money? In my pocket. Without further words, Heron dragged the ink-horn and a sheet of paper towards him, took up a pen, and wrote a few words rapidly in a loose, scrawly hand. He strewed sand over the writing, then handed it across the table to Debats. Will that do? he asked briefly. The other was reading the note through carefully. I see you only grant me a fortnight, he remarked casually. For that amount of money it is sufficient. If you want an extension you must pay more. So be it, assented Debats coolly, as he folded the paper across. On the whole, a fortnight's immunity in France these days is quite a pleasant respite, and I prefer to keep in touch with you, friend Heron. I'll call on you again this day, fortnight. He took out a letter case from his pocket. Out of this he drew a packet of banknotes which he laid on the table in front of Heron, then he placed the receipt carefully into the letter case, and this back into his pocket. Heron in the meanwhile was counting over the banknotes. The light of ferocity had entirely gone from his eyes. Momentarily the whole expression of the face was one of satisfied greed. Well, he said at last, when he had assured himself that the number of notes was quite correct, and he had transferred the bundle of crisp papers into an inner pocket of his coat. Well, what about your friend? I knew him years ago, rejoined Debats coolly. He is a kinsman of Citizen Saint-Just. I know that he is one of the Confederates of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Where does he lodge? That is for you to find out. I saw him at the theatre, and afterwards in the green room, he was making himself agreeable to the Citizeness' lounge. I heard him ask for leave to call on her to Murrow at four o'clock. You know where she lodges, of course. He watched Heron while the latter scribbled a few words on a scrap of paper, then he quietly rose to go. He took up his cloak, and once again wrapped it around his shoulders. There was nothing more to be said, and he was anxious to go. The leave-taking between the two men was neither cordial, nor more than barely courteous. Debats nodded to Heron, who escorted him to the outside door of his lodging, and there called loudly to a soldier who was doing sentinel at the further end of the corridor. Show this citizen the way to the guichet! He said curtly. Good night, citizen! He added, finally, nodding to Debats. Ten minutes later the Gascon once more found himself in the rue du Temple, between the great outer walls of the prison and the silent little church and convent of St. Elizabeth. He looked up to where, in the central tower, a small, grated window, lighted from within, showed the place where the last of the bourbons was being taught to desecrate the traditions of his race, at the bidding of a mender of shoes, a naval officer cashiered for misconduct and fraud. Such as human nature and its self-satisfied complacency, that Debats, calmly ignoring the vile part which he himself had played in the last quarter of an hour of his interview with the committee's agent, found it in him to think of Heron with loathing, and even of the cobbler seen mom with disgust. Then, with a self-righteous sense of duty performed, and an indifferent shrug of the shoulders, he dismissed Heron from his mind. That meddlesome scarlet pimpenel would find his hands over full to-morrow, and may Hap will not interfere in my affairs for some time to come, he mused. Miss seems that that will be the first time that a member of his precious league has come within the clutches of such unpleasant people as the sleuth-hounds of my friend Heron.