 CHAPTER ONE Paris, 1793 There was not even a reaction—on, ever on, in that wild, surging torrent, sowing the wind of anarchy, of terrorism, of lust, of blood and hate, and reaping a hurricane of destruction On, ever on, France, with Paris, and all her children still, rushes blindly, madly on, defies the powerful coalition, Austria, England, Spain, Prussia, all joined together to stem the flow of carnage, defies the universe, and defies God. Paris, this September, 1793, or shall we call it Vendemière, year one of the Republic? Call it what we will, Paris, a city of bloodshed, of humanity in its lowest, most degraded aspect. France herself, a gigantic, self-devouring monster, her fairest cities destroyed, Lyon, raised to the ground, Toulon, Marseille, masses of blackened ruins, her bravest sons turned to lustful brutes, or to abject cowards, seeking safety at the cost of any humiliation. What is thy reward? O mighty, holy revolution, apotheosis of equality and fraternity, grand rival of decadent Christianity. Five weeks now, since Marat, the blood-thirsty friend of the people, succumbed beneath the sheath-knife of a virgin patriot, a month since his murderous walked proudly, even enthusiastically to the guillotine. There has been no reaction. Only a great sigh, not of content or satisfied lust, but a sigh such as the man-eating tiger might heave after his first taste of long-coveted blood—a sigh for more. A king on the scaffold, a queen degraded and abased, awaiting death which lingers on the threshold of her infamous prison—eight hundred sions of ancient houses that have made the history of France, brave generals, custines, blanchelons, ouchards, boarnets, worthy patriots, noble-hearted women, misguided enthusiasts, all by the score and by the hundred up the few wooden steps which lead to the guillotine—an achievement of truth, and still that sigh for more. But for the moment, a few seconds only, Paris looked round her mighty self, and felt things over. The man-eating tiger, for the space of a sigh, licked his powerful jaws and pondered. Something new, something wonderful. We have had a new constitution, a new justice, new laws, a new almanac. What next? Why, obviously, how comes it that great intellectual aesthetic Paris never thought of such a wonderful thing before? A new religion. Christianity is old and obsolete. Priests are aristocrats, wealthy oppressors of the people, the church but another form of wanton tyranny. Let us by all means have a new religion. Already something has been done to destroy the old, to destroy, always to destroy. Things have been ransacked, all to spoliated, tombs desecrated, priests and curates murdered. But that is not enough. There must be a new religion, and to attain that, there must be a new God. Man is a born idol-worshipper. Very well, then, let the people have a new religion and a new God. Stay. Not a God this time. For God means majesty, power, kingship, everything in fact which the mighty hand of the people of France has struggled and fought to destroy. Not a God. But a Goddess. A goddess. An idol. A toy, since even the man-eating tiger must play sometimes. Paris wanted a new religion and a new toy. And grave men, ardent patriots, mad enthusiasts sat in the assembly of a convention and seriously discussed the means of providing her with both these things which she asked for. Chaumet, I think it was, who first solved the difficulty. Procureur Chaumet, head of the Paris municipality, he who had ordered that the cart which bore the dethroned queen to the squalid prison of the Conciergerie should be led slowly past her own late palace of the Tuileries, and should be stopped there just long enough for her to see and to feel in one grand mental vision all that she had been when she dwelt there, and all that she now was by the will of the people. Chaumet, as you see, was refined, artistic. The torture of the fallen queen's heart meant more to him than a blow of the guillotine on her neck. No wonder, therefore, that it was Procureur Chaumet who first discovered exactly what type of new religion Paris wanted just now. Let us have a goddess of reason, he said, typified, if you will, by the most beautiful woman in Paris. Let us have a feast of the goddess of reason. Let there be a pyre of all the gugles which for centuries have been flaunted by overbearing priests before the eyes of starving multitudes. Let the people rejoice and dance around that funeral pile, and above it all, let the new goddess tower smiling and triumphant, the goddess of reason, the only deity our new and regenerate France shall acknowledge throughout the centuries which are to come. Loud applause greeted the impassioned speech. A new goddess, by all means, shouted the grave gentleman of the National Assembly, the goddess of reason. They were all eager that the people should have this toy, something to play with and to tease, round which to dance the mad carmagnol, and sing the ever-recurring Saïra. Something to distract the minds of the populace from the consequences of its own deeds, and the helplessness of its legislators. Procureur Chaumet enlarged upon his original idea, like a true artist who seized the broad effect of a picture at a glance, and then fills in the minute details, he was already busy elaborating his scheme. The goddess must be beautiful, not too young, reason can only go hand in hand with the ripe rage of second youth. She must be decked out in classical draperies, severe yet suggestive. She must be rouged and painted, for she is a mere idle, easily to be appeased with incense, music, and laughter. He was getting deeply interested in his subject, seeking minutiae of detail with which to render his theme more and more attractive. But patience was never the characteristic of the revolutionary government of France. The National Assembly soon tired of Chaumet's Diferambic utterances. Upper loft on the mountain d'Anton was yawning like a gigantic leopard. Soon a rio was on his feet. He had a far finer scheme than that of the Procureur to place before his colleagues. A grand national fit, semi-religious in character, but of the new religion which destroyed and desecrated, and never knelt in worship. Chaumet's goddess of reason by all means, a rio conceded that the idea was a good one. But the goddess merely as a figurehead, around her a procession of unfrocked and apostate priests, typifying the destruction of ancient hierarchy, mules carrying loads of sacred vessels, the spoils of ten thousand churches of France, and ballet girls in Bacchanalian robes dancing the carmagnol around the new deity. Public prosecutor Fouquiette-en-Ville thought all these schemes very tame. Why should the people of France be led to think that the era of a new religion would mean an era of milk and water, of pageants and of fireworks? Let every man, woman, and child know that this was an era of blood and again of blood. Oh! he exclaimed in passionate accents. Would that all the traitors in France had but one head that it might be cut off with one blow of the guillotine. He approved of the national fate, but he desired an apotheosis of the guillotine. He undertook to find ten thousand traitors to be beheaded on one grand and glorious day, ten thousand heads to adorn the Place de la Révolution on a great, never-to-be-forgotten evening after the guillotine had accomplished its record work. But Colo Der Bois would also have his way. Colo, lately hailed from the south, with a reputation for ferocity unparalleled throughout the whole of this horrible decade. He would not be outdone by Danville's blood-firsty schemes. He was the inventor of the Noillade, which had been so successful at Lyon and Marseille. Why not give the inhabitants of Paris one of these exhilarating spectacles, he asked, with a coarse, brutal laugh. Then he explained his invention, of which he was inordinately proud. Some two or three hundred traitors, men, women, and children, tied securely together with ropes and great human bundles, and thrown upon a barge in the middle of the river. The barge, with a hole in her bottom—not too large, only sufficient to cause her to sink slowly, very slowly, in sight of the crowd of delighted spectators. The cries of the women and children, and even of the men, as they felt the waters rising and gradually enveloping them, as they felt themselves powerless even for a fruitless struggle, had proved most exhilarating, so Citizen Colo declared, to the hearts of the true patriots of Lyon. Thus the discussion continued. This was the era when every man had but one desire, that of outdoing others in ferocity and brutality, and but one care, that of saving his own head by threatening that of his neighbour. The great duel between the titanic leaders of these turbulent parties, the conflict between hot-headed Danton on the one side and cold-blooded Robespierre on the other, had only just begun. The great, all-devouring monsters had dug their claws into one another, but the issue of the combat was still at stake. Neither of these two giants had taken part in these deliberations and end the new religion and the new goddess. Danton gave signs now and then of the greatest impatience, and muttered something about a new form of tyranny, a new kind of oppression. On the left, Robespierre, in immaculate sea-green coat and carefully goffered linen, was quietly polishing the nails of his right hand against the palm of his left. But nothing escaped him of what was going on. His ferocious egoism, his unbounded ambition, was even now calculating what advantages to himself might accrue from this idea of the new religion and of the national fete, what personal aggrandisement he could derived therefrom. The matter outwardly seemed trivial enough, but already his keen and calculating mind had seen various side issues which might tend to place him, Robespierre, on a yet higher and more unassailable pinnacle. Surrounded by those who hated him, those who envied and those who feared him, he ruled over them all by the strength of his own cold-blooded savagery, by the resistless power of his merciless cruelty. He cared about nobody but himself, about nothing but his own exaltation. Every action of his career, since he gave up his small practice in a quiet provincial town in order to throw himself into the wild vortex of revolutionary politics, every word he ever uttered had but one aim—himself. When he saw his colleagues and comrades of the old Jacobin clubs ruthlessly destroyed around him, friends he had none, and all left him indifferent. And now he had hundreds of enemies in every assembly and club in Paris, and these two, one by one, were being swept up in that wild whirlpool which they themselves had created. Impassive, serene, always ready with a calm answer when passion raged most hotly around him, Robespierre, the most ambitious, most self-seeking demagogue of his time, had acquired the reputation of being incorruptible and selfless, an enthusiastic servant of the Republic—the sea-green incorruptible. And thus, whilst the others talked and argued, waxed hot over schemes for processions and pageantry, or loudly denounced the whole matter as the work of a traitor, he, of the sea-green coat, sat quietly polishing his nails. But he had already weighed all these discussions in the balance of his mind, placed them in the crucible of his ambition, and turned them into something that would benefit him and strengthen his position. Either feast should be brilliant enough, gay or horrible, mad or fearful, but through it all the people of France must be made to feel that there was a guiding hand which ruled the destinies of all, a head which framed the new laws, which consolidated the new religion, and established its new goddess, the goddess of reason. Robespierre, her prophet. CHAPTER II The room was close and dark, filled with the smoke from a defective chimney. A tiny boudoir, once the dainty sanctum of Imperius Marie Antoinette, a faint and ghostly odour like unto the perfume of spectres, seemed still to cling to the stained walls and to the torn, goblum tapestries. Everywhere lay the impress of a heavy and destroying hand, that of the great and glorious revolution. In the mud-soiled corners of the room, a few chairs, with brocaded cushions, rudely torn, lent broken and desolate against the walls. A small footstool, once guilt-legged and sat uncovered, had been overturned and roughly kicked to one side, and there it lay on its back, like some little animal that had been hurt, stretching its broken limbs upwards, pathetic to behold. From the delicately wrought ball-table the silver inlay had been harshly stripped out of its bed of shell. Across the lunette, painted by Boucher and representing a chaste Diana surrounded by a bevy of nymphs, an uncouth hand had scribbled in charcoal the device of the revolution — liberté, égalité, fraternité, ou la mort — whilst, as if to give a crowning point to the work of destruction, and to emphasise its motto, someone had decorated the portrait of Marie Antoinette with a scarlet cap, and had drawn a red and ominous line across her neck. And at the table two men were sitting in close and eager conclave. Between them a solitary tallow candle, unsnuffed and weirdly flickering, threw fantastic shadows upon the walls, and illumined with fitful and uncertain light the faces of the two men. How different were these in character? One high cheek-boned with coarse, sensuous lips, and hair elaborately and carefully powdered. A pale and thin lipped, with the keen eyes of a ferret, and a high intellectual forehead, from which the sleek brown hair was smoothly brushed away. The first of these men was Robspierre, the ruthless and incorruptible demagogue. The other was Citizen Chauvelin, ex-ambassador of the revolutionary government of the English court. The hour was late, and the noises from the great, seething city preparing for sleep came to this remote little apartment in the now deserted palace of the Tuileries, merely as a faint and distant echo. It was two days after the fruct du dor, riots. Paul de Roulade and the woman Juliette Marnie, both condemned to death, had been literally spirited away out of the cart which was conveying them from the Hall of Justice to the Luxembourg prison, and news had just been received by the Committee of Public Safety that at Lyon, the Abbey du Mesnil, and the Sides-de-Vins-Chevaliers-des-Gremants, and the latter's wife and family, had affected a miraculous and wholly incomprehensible escape from the northern prison. But this was not all. An arras fell into the hands of the revolutionary army, and a regular cordon was formed round the town, so that not a single royalist traitor might escape. Some three score, women and children, twelve priests, the old aristocrats Chermoy, Delville, and Gallipot, and many others, managed to pass the barriers and were never recaptured. Raids were made on the suspected houses, in Paris chiefly where the escaped prisoners might have found refuge, or better still, where their helpers and rescuers might still be lurking. Fouquiette-en-Ville, public prosecutor, led and conducted these raids, assisted by that bloodthirsty vampire Merlan. They heard of a house in the rue de l'ancien comédie, where an Englishman was said to have lodged for two days. They demanded admittance, and were taken to the rooms where the Englishman had stayed. These were bare and squalid, like hundreds of other rooms in the poorer quarters of Paris. The landlady, toothless and grimy, had not yet tidied up the one where the Englishman had slept. In fact, she did not know he had left for good. He had paid for his room a week in advance, and came and went as he liked, she explained to Citizen D'Enville. She never bothered about him, as he never took a meal in the house, and he was only there two days. She did not know her lodger was English until the day he left. She thought he was a Frenchman from the south, as he certainly had a peculiar accent when he spoke. It was the day of the riots, she continued, he would go out, and I told him I did not think that the streets would be safer of foreigner like him, for he always wore such very fine clothes, and I made sure that the starving men and women of Paris would strip them off his back when their tempers were roused. But he only laughed. He gave me a bit of paper, and told me that if he did not return, I might conclude that he had been killed, and if the Committee of Public Safety asked me questions about him, I was just to show the bit of paper, and there would be no further trouble. She had talked volubly, more than a little terrified at Merlin's scowls, and the attitude of Citizen D'Enville, who was known to be very severe if anyone committed any blunders. But the Citizeness, her name was Brogar, and her husband's brother kept an inn in the neighbourhood of Calais. The Citizeness Brogar had a clear conscience. She held a licence from the Committee of Public Safety for letting apartments, and she had always given due notice to the Committee of the Arrival and Departure of her Lodgers. The only thing was that if any lodger paid her more than ordinarily well for the accommodation, and he so desired it, she would send in the notice conveniently late, and conveniently vaguely worded as to the description, status, and nationality of her more liberal patrons. This had occurred in the case of her recent English visitor. But she did not explain it quite like that to Citizen Fouquiet D'Enville or to Citizen Merlin. However, she was rather frightened, and produced the scrap of paper which the Englishman had left with her, together with the assurance that when she showed it there would be no further trouble. D'Enville took it roughly out of her hand, but would not glance at it. He crushed it into a ball, and then Merlin snatched it from him with a coarse laugh, smoothed out the creases on his knee, and studied it for a moment. There were two lines of what looked like poetry, written in a language which Merlin did not understand—English, no doubt. But what was perfectly clear, and easily comprehended by any one, was the little drawing in the corner, done in red ink, and representing a small, star-shaped flower. Then D'Enville and Merlin both cursed loudly and volubly, and bidding their men follow them, turned away from the house in the mood of the ancien comédie, and left its toothless landlady on her own doorstep, still volubly protesting her patriotism, and her desire to serve the government of the Republic. D'Enville and Merlin, however, took the scrap of paper to citizen Robespierre, who smiled grimly as he, in his turn, crushed the offensive little document in the palm of his well-washed hands. Robespierre did not swear. He never wasted either words or oaths, but he slipped the bit of paper inside the double lid of his silver snuff-box, and then he sent a special message to citizen Chauvelin in the Rue-Corneille, bidding him come that same evening after ten o'clock, to room number sixteen in the Cidevain Palace of the Tuileries. It was now half-past ten, and Chauvelin and Robespierre sat opposite one another in the ex-boudoir of Queen Marie Antoinette, and between them on the table, just below the tallow candle, was a much creased, exceedingly grimy bit of paper. It had passed through several unclean hands before citizen Robespierre's immaculately white fingers had smoothed it out and placed it before the eyes of ex-ambassador Chauvelin. The latter, however, was not looking at the paper. He was not even looking at the pale, cruel face before him. He had closed his eyes, and for a moment had lost sight of the small, dark room of Robespierre's ruthless gaze of the mud-stained walls and greasy floor. He was seeing, as in a bright and sudden vision, the brilliantly lighted salons of the foreign office in London, with beautiful margarite-blakeney gliding queen-light on the arm of the Prince of Wales. He heard the flutter of many fans, the fru-fru of silk-dresses, and above all the din and sound of dance-music, he heard in a name laugh and an affected voice repeating the dog-roll rhyme that was even now written on that dirty piece of paper which Robespierre had placed before him. We seek him here, and we seek him there. Those Frenchies seek him everywhere. Is he in heaven? Is he in hell? That dem-delusive pimpinelle. It was a mere flash. One of memory's swiftly effaced pictures, when she shows us for the fraction of a second indelible pictures from out of our past. Chauvelin, in that same second, while his own eyes were closed and Robespierre's fixed upon him, also saw the lonely cliffs of Calais, heard the same voice singing, God save the king, the volley of musketry, the despairing cries of margarite-blakeney, and once again he felt the keen and bitter pang of complete humiliation and defeat. CHAPTER III Robespierre had quietly waited the while. He was in no hurry. Being a night-bird of very pronounced taste, he was quite ready to sit here until the small hours of the morning, watching citizen Chauvelin mentally writhing in the throes of recollections of the past few months. There was nothing that delighted the sea-green incorruptible quite so much as the aspect of a man struggling with a hopeless situation, and feeling a net of intrigue drawing gradually tighter and tighter around him. Even now, when he saw Chauvelin's smooth forehead wrinkled into an anxious frown, and his thin hand nervously clutched upon the table, Robespierre heaved a pleasurable sigh, leaned back in his chair, and said with an amiable smile, You do agree with me, then, citizen, that the situation has become intolerable. Then, as Chauvelin did not reply, he continued speaking more sharply, and how terribly galling it all is, when we could have had that man under the guillotine by now if you had not blundered so terribly last year. His voice had become hard and trenchant like that knife to which he was so ready to make constant illusion. But Chauvelin still remained silent. There was really nothing that he could say. Citizen Chauvelin, how you must hate that man, exclaimed Robespierre at last. Then only did Chauvelin break the silence which up to now he had appeared to have forced himself to keep. I do, he said, with unmistakable fervour. Then why do you not make an effort to retrieve the blunders of last year, queried Robespierre blandly? The republic has been unusually patient and long suffering with you, citizen Chauvelin. She has taken your many services and well-known patriotism into consideration. But you know, he added significantly, that she has no use for worthless tools. Then, as Chauvelin seemed to have relapsed into sullen silence, he continued with his original ill-ohmened blandness. Muffois, citizen Chauvelin, were I standing in your buckled shoes, I would not lose another hour in trying to avenge my own humiliation. Have I ever had a chance, burst out Chauvelin with ill-suppressed vehemence? What can I do, single-handed? Since war has been declared, I cannot go to England unless the government will find some official reason for my doing so. There is much grumbling and wrath over here, and when that damned scarlet Pimpernel League has been at work, when a score or so of valuable prizes have been snatched from under the very knife of the guillotine, then there is much gnashing of teeth and useless cursings, but nothing serious or definite is done to smother those accursed English flies which come buzzing about our ears. Nay, you forget, citizen Chauvelin, retorted Robespier, that we of the Committee of Public Safety are far more helpless than you. You know the language of these people. We don't. You know their manners and customs, their ways of thought, the methods they are likely to employ. We know none of these things. You have seen and spoken to men in England who are members of that damned league. You have seen the man who is its leader. We have not. He lent forward on the table, and looked more searchingly at the thin, pallid face before him. If you named that leader to me now, if you described him, we could go to work more easily. You could name him, and you would, citizen Chauvelin. I cannot, retorted Chauvelin doggedly. Ah! But I think you could. But there! I do not blame your silence. You would wish to reap the reward of your own victory, to be the instrument of your own revenge—passions. I think it natural. But in the name of your own safety, citizen, do not be too greedy with your secret. If the man is known to you, find him again. Find him. Lure him to France. We want him. The people want him. And if the people do not get what they want, they will turn on those who have withheld their prey. I understand, citizen, that your own safety in that of your government is involved in this renewed attempt to capture the scarlet Pimpernel, retorted Chauvelin dryly. And your head, citizen Chauvelin, concluded Robspere. Nay, I know that well enough, and you may believe me, and you will, citizen, when I say that I care but little about that. The question is, if I am to lure that man to France, what will you and your government do to help me? Everything," replied Robspere, provided you have a definite plan and a definite purpose. I have both. But I must go to England in, at least, a semi-official capacity. I can do nothing if I am to hide in disguise in out-of-the-way corners. That is easily done. There has been some talk with the British authorities and end for security and welfare of peaceful French subjects settled in England. After a good deal of correspondence they have suggested our sending a semi-official representative over there to look after the interests of our own people commercially and financially. We can easily send you over in that capacity if it would suit your purpose. Admirably. I have only need of a cloak. That one will do as well as another. Is that all? Not quite. I have several plans in my head, and I must know that I am fully trusted. Above all, I must have power. Decisive, absolute, illimitable power. There was nothing of the weakling about this small, sable-clad man who looked the redoubtable Jacoban leader straight in the face and brought a firm fist resolutely down upon the table before him. Robspere paused a while ere he replied. He was eyeing the other man keenly, trying to read if behind that earnest, frowning brow there did not lurk some selfish, ulterior motive along with that demand for absolute power. But Chauvelin did not flinch beneath that gaze which could make every cheek in France blanch with unnamed terror. And after that slight moment of hesitation, Robspere said quietly, You shall have the complete power of a military dictator in every town or borough of France which you may visit. The revolutionary government shall create you before you start for England, supreme head of all the sub-committees of public safety. This will mean that in the name of the safety of the Republic every order given by you, of whatsoever nature it might be, must be obeyed implicitly under pain of an arraignment for treason. Chauvelin sighed a quick, sharp, sigh of intense satisfaction, which he did not even attempt to disguise before Robspere. I shall want agents, he said, or shall we say, spies. And of course, money. You shall have both. We keep a very efficient secret service in England, and they do a great deal of good over there. There is much dissatisfaction in their midland counties. You remember the Birmingham riots? They were chiefly the work of our own spies. Then you know Candet, the actress? She had found her way among some of those circles in London who have what they call liberal tendencies. I believe they are called wigs. Funny name, isn't it? It means beruk, I think. Candet has given charity performances in aid of our Paris poor, in one or two of these wig-clubs, and incidentally, she has been very useful to us. A woman is always useful in such cases. I shall seek out the citizeness Candet. And if she renders you useful assistance, I think I can offer her what should prove a tempting prize. Women are so vain, he added, contemplating with raptor tension the enamel-like polish on his fingernails. There is a vacancy in the Maison-Molière, or what might prove more attractive still, in connection with the proposed national fit and the new religion for the people. We have not yet chosen a goddess of reason. That should appeal to any feminine mind. The impersonation of a goddess, with processions, pageants, and the rest—great importance and prominence given to one personality. What say you, citizen? If you really have need of a woman for the furtherance of your plans, you have that at your disposal which may enhance her zeal. I thank you, citizen, rejoined Chauvelin calmly. I always entertained a hope that some day the revolutionary government would call again on my services. I admit that I failed last year. The Englishman is resourceful. He has wits, and he is very rich. He would not have succeeded, I think, but for his money, and corruption and bribery are rife in Paris and on our coasts. He slipped through my fingers at the very moment when I thought that I held him most securely. I do admit all that, but I am prepared to redeem my failure of last year, and—there is nothing more to discuss. I am ready to start. He looked round for his cloak and hat, and quietly readjusted the set of his necktie. But Robespierre detained him a while longer. That born mountain-bank, born torturer of the souls of men, had not gloated sufficiently yet on the agony of mind of this fellow man. Chauvelin had always been trusted and respected. His services in connection with the foreign affairs of the revolutionary government had been invaluable, both before and since the beginning of the European War. At one time he formed part of that merciless Decemberate which, Robespierre at its head, meant to govern France by laws of bloodshed and of unparalleled ferocity. But the sea-green incorruptible had since tired of him, then had endeavoured to push him on one side, for Chauvelin was keen and clever, and, moreover, he possessed all those qualities of selfless patriotism which was so conspicuously lacking in Robespierre. His failure in bringing that interfering Scarlet Pimpernel to justice and the guillotine had completed Chauvelin's downfall. Though not otherwise molested, he had been left to mould with obscurity during this past year. He would soon enough have been completely forgotten. Now he was not only to be given one more chance to regain public favour, but he had demanded powers which, in consideration of the aim and view, Robespierre himself could not refuse to grant him. But the incorruptible, ever envious and jealous, would not allow him to exult too soon. With characteristic blandness he seemed to be entering into all Chauvelin's schemes, to be helping in every way he could, for there was something at the back of his mind which he meant to say to the ex-ambassador, before the latter took his leave, something which would show him that he was but on trial once again, and which would demonstrate to him with perfect clearness, that over him there hath er'd the all-powerful hand of a master. "'You have but to name the sum you want, citizen Chauvelin,' said the incorruptible, with an encouraging smile. The government will not stint you, and you shall not fail for lack of authority or for lack of funds. It is pleasant to hear that the government has such uncounted wealth,' remarked Chauvelin, with dry sarcasm. "'Oh! The last few weeks have been very profitable,' retorted Robespier. "'We have confiscated money and jewels from emigrant royalists to the tune of several million francs. You remember the traitor Juliet Marnie, who escaped to England lately?' "'Well! Her mother's jewels, and quite a good deal of gold, were discovered by one of our most able spies to be under the care of a certain Abbe Fouquet, a calotain from Boulogne, devoted to the family, so it seems. "'Queried Chauvelin, indifferently. Our men seized the jewels and gold. That is all. We don't know yet what we mean to do with the priest. The Fisherfolk of Boulogne like him, and we can lay our hands on him at any time, if we want his old head for the guillotine. But the jewels were worth having. There's a historic necklace worth half a million at least. "'Could I have it?' asked Chauvelin. Robespier laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "'You said it belonged to the Marnie family,' continued the ex-Ambassador. "'Juliet Marnie is in England. I might meet her. I cannot tell what may happen, but I feel that the historic necklace might prove useful.'" "'Just as you please,' he added, with renewed indifference. It was a thought that flashed through my mind when you spoke, nothing more. "'And to show you how thoroughly the government trusts you, citizen Chauvelin,' replied Robespier, with perfect obanity, "'I will myself direct that the Marnie necklace be placed unreservedly in your hands, and a sum of fifty thousand francs for your expenses in England. "'You see,' he added, blandly, "'we give you no excuse for a second failure.'" "'I need none,' retorted Chauvelin dryly, as he finally rose from his seat, with the sigh of satisfaction that this interview was ended at last. But Robespier, too, had risen, and, pushing his chair aside, he took a step or two towards Chauvelin. He was a much taller man than the ex-Ambassador. Spare and gaunt, he had a very upright bearing, and in the uncertain light of the candle, he seemed to tower strangely and weirdly above the other man. The pale hue of his coat, his light-coloured hair, the whiteness of his linen, all helped to give his appearance at that moment a curious spectral effect. Chauvelin somehow felt an unpleasant shiver running down his spine as Robespier, perfectly urbane and gentle in his manner, placed a long, bony hand upon his shoulder. "'Citizen Chauvelin,' said the incorruptible, with some degree of dignified solemnity, misseems that we very quickly understood one another this evening. Your own conscience, no doubt, gave you a premonition of what the purport of my summons to you would be. You say that you always hoped the revolutionary government would give you one great chance to redeem your failure of last year. I, for one, always intended that you should have that chance, for I saw, perhaps, just a little deeper into your heart than my colleagues. I saw not only enthusiasm for the cause of the people of France, not only abhorrence for the enemy of your country, I saw a purely personal and deadly hate of an individual man, the unknown and mysterious Englishman who proved too clever for you last year. And because I believe that hatred will prove sharper and more far-seeing than selfless patriotism, therefore I urged the Committee of Public Safety to allow you to work out your own revenge, and thereby to serve your country more effectually than any other, perhaps more pure-minded patriot would do. You go to England well provided with all that is necessary for the success of your plans, for the accomplishment of your own personal vengeance. The revolutionary government will help you with money, passports, safe conducts. It places its spies and agents at your disposal. It gives you practically unlimited power wherever you may go. It will not inquire into your motives, nor yet your means, so long as these lead to success. But private vengeance or patriotism, whatever may actuate you, we here in France demand you deliver into our hands the man who is known in two countries as the scarlet Pimpernel. We want him alive if possible, or dead if it must be so, and we want as many of his henchmen as will follow him to the guillotine. Get them to France, and we'll know how to deal with them, and let the whole of Europe be damned." He paused for a while. His hand still resting on Chauvelin's shoulder, his pale green eyes holding those of the other man as if in a trance. But Chauvelin neither stirred nor spoke. His triumph left him quite calm, his fertile brain was already busy with his plans. There was no room for fear in his heart, and it was without the slightest tremor that he waited for the conclusion of Robespierre's oration. "'Perhaps,' citizen Chauvelin, said the latter at last, "'you have already guessed what there is left for me to say. But lest there should remain in your mind one faint glimmer of doubt or of hope, let me tell you this. The revolutionary government gives you this chance of redeeming your failure, but this one only. If you fail again, your outraged country will know neither pardon nor mercy. Whether you return to France or remain in England, whether you travel north, south, east or west, cross the oceans or traverse the Alps, the hand of an avenging people will be upon you. Your second failure will be punished by death, wherever you may be, either by the guillotine if you are in France, or if you seek refuge elsewhere, then by the hand of an assassin. Look to it, citizen Chauvelin, for there will be no escape this time, not even if the mightiest tyrant on earth tried to protect you, not even if you succeeded in building up an empire and placing yourself upon a throne. His thin, strident voice echoed weirdly in the small, close Boudoir. Chauvelin made no reply. There was nothing that he could say. All that Robespierre had put so emphatically before him, he had fully realized, even whilst he was forming his most daring plans. It was an either-all this time, uttered to him now. He thought again of Marguerite Blakeney, and the terrible alternative he had put before her less than a year ago. Well, he was prepared to take the risk. He would not fail again. He was going to England under more favourable conditions this time. He knew who the man was, whom he was bidden to lure to France and to death. And he returned Robespierre's threatening gaze boldly and unflinchingly. Then he prepared to go. He took up his hat and cloak, opened the door and peered for a moment into the dark corridor, wherein, in the far distance, the steps of a solitary sentinel could be faintly heard. He put on his hat, turned to look once more into the room where Robespierre stood quietly watching him, and went his way. CHAPTER IV The Richmond Galer It was perhaps the most brilliant September ever known in England, where the last days of dying summer are nearly always golden and beautiful. Strange that in this country, where that same season is so peculiarly radiant with a glory all its own, there should be no special expression in a language with which to accurately name it. So, we needs must call it, Fonditie, the ending of the summer. Not the absolute end, nor yet the ultimate departure, but the tender lingering of a friend obliged to leave us a none, yet who feign would steal a day here and there, a week or so in which to stay with us, who would make that last pathetic farewell of his endure a little while longer still, and bring forth in gorgeous array for our final gaze all that he has which is most luxuriant, most desirable, most worthy of regret. And in this year of grace, 1793, departing summer had lavished the treasures of her pallet upon woodland and river banks, had tinged the once crude green of larch and elm with a tender hue of gold, had brushed the oaks with tones of warm russet, and put patches of sienna and crimson on the beach. In the gardens the roses were still in bloom, not the delicate blush or lemon ones of June, nor yet the pale banksiers and climbers, but the full-blooded red roses of late summer, and deep-coloured apricot ones with crinkled outside leaves faintly kissed by the frosty dew. In sheltered spots the purple climatists still lingered, whilst the dahlias, brilliant of hue, seemed overbearing in their gorgeous insolence, flaunting their crudely-coloured petals against sober backgrounds of mellow leaves, or the dull, mossy tones of ancient encircling walls. The gala had always been held about the end of September. The weather on the river side was most dependable then, and there was always sufficient sunshine as an excuse for bringing out madam's last new muslin gown, or her pale-coloured quilted petticoat. Then the ground was dry and hard, good alike for walking and for setting up tents and booths. And of these there was of a truth a most goodly array this year. Mounted banks and jugglers from every corner of the world so it seemed, for there was a man with a face as black as my lord's tricorn, and another with such flat yellow cheeks as made one think of batter pudding and spring aconite, of eggs and other very yellow things. There was a tent wherein dogs, all sorts of dogs, big, little, black, white or tan, did things which no Christian with respect for his own backbone would have dared to perform, and another where a weird-faced old man made beanstalks and walking-sticks, coins of the realm and lace kerchiefs, vanished into thin air. And as it was nice and hot, one could sit out upon the green and listen to the strains of the band, which discourse sweet music, and watch the young people tread a measure on the sword. The quality had not yet arrived, for humbler folk had partaken of very early dinners so as to get plenty of fun, and long hours of delight for the six-penny-toll demanded at the gates. There was so much to see and so much to do. Games of bowls on the green and a beautiful aunt's alley, there was a skittle alley and two merry-go-rounds. There were performing monkeys and dancing bears, a woman so fat that three men with arms outstretched could not get round her, and a man so thin that he could put a lady's bracelet round his neck and her garter round his waist. There were some funny little dwarfs with pinched faces and a knowing manner, and a giant come all the way from Russia, so twas said. The mechanical toys, too, were a great attraction. You dropped a penny into a little slit in a box, and a doll would begin to dance and play the fiddle. And there was the magic mill, where for another modest copper, a row of tiny figures, wrinkled and old and dressed in the shabbiest of rags, marched in weary procession up a flight of steps into the mill, only to emerge again the next moment at a further door of this wonderful building, looking young and gay, dressed in gorgeous finery and tripping a dance-measure as they descended some steps and were finally lost to view. But what was most wonderful of all, and collected the goodliest crowd of gazers in the largest amount of coins, was a miniature representation of what was going on in France, even at this very moment. And you could not help but be convinced of the truth of it all so cleverly was it done. There was a background of houses and a very red-looking sky. Too red, some people said, but were immediately quashed by the dictum of the wise, that the sky represented a sunset as any one who'd looked could see. Then there were a number of little figures no taller than your hand, but with little wooden faces and arms and legs just beautifully made little dolls, and these were dressed in kettles and britches, all rags mostly, and little coats and wooden shoes. There were mass-togethering groups with their arms all turned upwards. And in the centre of this little stage, on an elevated platform, there were miniature wooden posts close together, and with a long flat board at right angles at the foot of the posts, and all painted a bright red. At the further end of the boards was a miniature basket, and between the two posts at the top was a miniature knife which ran up and down in a groove, and was drawn by a miniature pulley. Folk who knew said that this was a model of a guillotine. And lo and behold, when you dropped a penny into a slot just below the wooden stage, the crowd of little figures started waving their arms up and down, and another little doll would ascend the elevated platform and lie down on the red board at the foot of the wooden posts. Then a figure dressed in brilliant scarlet put out an arm, presumably to touch the pulley, and the tiny knife would rattle down onto the poor little reclining doll's neck, and its head would roll off into the basket beyond. Then there was a loud whir of wheels, a buzz of internal mechanism, and all the little figures would stop dead with arms outstretched, whilst the beheaded doll rolled off the board and was lost to view, no doubt preparatory to going through the same gruesome pantomime again. It was very thrilling and very terrible. A certain air of hushed awe reigned in the booth where this mechanical wonder was displayed. The booth itself stood in a secluded portion of the grounds, far from the toll gates in the bandstand in the noise of the merry-go-round, and there were great texts written in red letters on a black ground pinned all along the walls. Please bear a copper for the starving poor of Paris. A lady dressed in grey quilted petticoat, and pretty grey and black striped panniers, could be seen walking in the booth from time to time, then disappearing through a partition beyond. She would emerge again presently carrying an embroidered reticule, and would wander round among the crowd, holding out the bag by its chain, and repeating in tones of somewhat monotonous appeal, for the starving poor of Paris, if you please. She had fine dark eyes, rather narrow and tending upwards at the outer corners, which gave her face a not altogether pleasant expression. Still there were fine eyes, and when she went round soliciting arms, most of the men put a hand into their bridge's pocket and dropped a coin into her embroidered reticule. She said the word poor in a rather funny way, rolling the R at the end, and she also said please, as if it were spelled with a long line of ease, and so it was concluded that she was French and was begging for her poorer sisters. At stated intervals during the day, the mechanical toy was rolled into a corner, and the lady in grey stood up on a platform and sang queer little songs, the words of which nobody could understand. Il était d'une bergeur, et rond, et petit patapion. But it all left an impression of sadness and of suppressed awe, upon the minds and susceptibilities of the worthy Richmond yokels come with their wives or sweethearts to enjoy the fun of the fair, and gladly did every one emerge out of that melancholy booth into the sunshine, the brightness, and the noise. "'Lud but she do give me the creeps,' said Mistress Polly, the pretty barmaid from the bell inn down by the river, and I must say I don't see why we English folk should send our hard-end pennies to those murdering ruffians over the water. Be in starving, so to speak, don't make a murderer a better man if he goes on murdering,' she added with undisputable, if ungrammatical logic. Come, let's look at something more cheerful now. And without waiting for any one else's ascent, she turned towards the more lively portion of the grounds, closely followed by a ruddy faced, somewhat sheepish-looking youth, who very obviously was her attendant swain. It was getting on for three o'clock now, and the quality were beginning to arrive. Lord Anthony Dewhurst was already there, chucking every pretty girl under the chin to the annoyance of her bow. Ladies were arriving all the time, and the humbler feminine hearts were constantly set aflutter at sight of rich, brocaded gowns, and the new charlots, all crinkled velvet and soft marabou, which were so becoming to the pretty faces beneath. There was incessant and loud talking and chattering, with here and there the shriller tones of a French voice being distinctly noticeable in the din. There were a good many French ladies and gentlemen present, easily recognizable even in the distance, for their clothes were of more sober hue and of lesser richness than those of their English compeers. But they were great lords and ladies nevertheless, dukes and duchesses and countesses, come to England for fear of being murdered by those devils in their own country. Richmond was full of them just now, as they were made right welcome both at the palace and at the magnificent home of Supercy and Lady Blakeney. Ah! Here comes her Andrew folks with his lady, so pretty and dainty does she look, like a little china doll in her new fashion short-waisted gown, her brown hair and soft waves above her smooth forehead, her great hazel eyes fixed in unaffected admiration on the gallant husband by her side. No wonder she dotes on him, sighed pretty Mistress Polly after she had bobbed her curtsy to my lady. The brave deity did for love of her, rescued her from those murderers over in France, and brought her to England safe and sound, having fought no ender than single-handed or so I've heard it said. Have you not, Master Thomas Jezzard? And she looked defiantly at her meek-looking cavalier. Baa! replied Master Thomas, with quite unusual vehemence, and responds to the disparaging look in her brown eyes. It is not he who did it all. As well you know, Mistress Polly. Sir Andrew folks is a gallant gentleman. You may take your Bible oaf on that. But he that fights the murdering frog-eater single-handed is he whom they call the scarlet Pimpernel, the bravest gentleman in all the world. Then, as had mentioned of the national hero, he thought that he detected in Mistress Polly's eyes an enthusiasm which he could not very well ascribe to his own individuality. He added with some peak. But they do say that the same scarlet Pimpernel is mightily ill-favoured, and that's why no one ever sees him. They say he is fit to scare the crows away, and that no Frenchie can look twice at his face for it so ugly, and so they let him get out of the country rather than look at him again. Then they do say a mighty lot of nonsense, retorted Mistress Polly, with a shrug of her pretty shoulders. And if that be so, then why don't you go over to France and join hands with the scarlet Pimpernel? I'll warrant no Frenchman will want to look twice at your face. A chorus of laughter greeted this sally, for the two young people had in the meanwhile been joined by several of their friends, and now formed part of a merry group near the band, some sitting, others standing, but all bent on seeing as much as there was to see Enrichment Gailer this day. There was Johnny Cullen, the grocer's apprentice from Twickenham, and Ursula Queckett, the baker's daughter, and several youngins from the neighbourhood, as well as some older folk. And all of them enjoyed a joke when they heard one, and thought Mistress Polly's retort mightily smart. But then Mistress Polly was possessed of two hundred pounds all her own, left to her by her grandmother, and on the strength of this extensive fortune had acquired a reputation for beauty and wit, not easily accorded to a wench that had been penniless. But Mistress Polly was also very kind-hearted. She loved to tease Master Jezzard, who was an indefatigable hanger-on at her pretty skirts, and whose easy conquest had rendered her somewhat contemptuous, but at the look of perplexed annoyance and bewildered distress on the lad's face, her better nature soon got the upper hand. She realised that her remark had been unwarrantably spiteful, and wishing to make atonement, she said with the touch of cocoa-tree which quickly spread balm over the honest yokel's injured vanity. La! Master Jezzard, you do seem to make a body say some queer things. But there! You must own to his mighty funny about that scarlet pimpanel, she added, appealing to the company in general, just as if Master Jezzard had been disputing the fact. Why won't he let any one see who he is? And those who know him won't tell. Now I have it for a fact, from my lady's own maid Lucy, that the young lady, as is stopping at Lady Blakeney's house, has actually spoken to the man. She came over from France, come a fortnight to-morrow. She and the gentleman they call Massoud de Roulèd. They both saw the scarlet pimpanel and spoke to him. He brought them over from France. Then why won't they say? Say what! commented Johnny Cullen, the apprentice, who this mysterious scarlet pimpanel is. Perhaps he isn't, said old Clutterbuck, who was Clarke of the vestry at the Church of St. John's The Evangelist. Yes, he added sententiously, for he was fond of his own sayings and usually liked to repeat them before he had quite done with them. That's it. You may be sure. Perhaps he isn't. What do you mean, Master Clutterbuck? asked Ursula Queckard, for she knew the old man liked to explain his wise source, and as she wanted to marry his son, she indulged him wherever she could. What do you mean? He isn't what? He isn't. That's all. Then, seeing that he had gained the attention of the little party around him, he condescended to come to more logical phraseology. I mean that, perhaps we must not ask, who is this mysterious scarlet pimpanel, but who was that poor and unfortunate gentleman? Then you think," suggested Mistress Polly, who felt unaccountably low-spirited at this oratorical pronouncement. I have it for a fact, said Mr. Clutterbuck solemnly, that he whom they call the scarlet pimpanel no longer exists now, that he was collared by the Frenchies as far back as last fall, and in the language of the poets, has never been heard of no more. Mr. Clutterbuck was very fond of quoting from the works of certain writers whose names he never mentioned, but who went by the poetical generality of the poets. Whenever he made use of phrases which he was supposed to derive from these great and unnamed authors, he solemnly and mechanically raised his hat as a tribute of respect to these giant minds. You think that the scarlet pimpanel is dead, Mr. Clutterbuck? That those horrible Frenchies murdered him? Surely you don't mean that," sighed Mistress Polly ruefully. Mr. Clutterbuck put his hand up to his hat, preparatory, no doubt, making another appeal to the mysterious poets, but was interrupted in the very act of uttering great thoughts by a loud and prolonged laugh which came echoing from a distant corner of the grounds. "'Lud, but I'd know that laugh anywhere,' said Mistress Quecket, whilst all eyes were turned in the direction once the merry noise had come. Half a head taller than any of his friends around him, his lazy blue eyes scanning from beneath their drooping lids the motley throng around him, stood Sir Percy Blakeney, the centre of a gaily dressed little group which seemingly had just crossed the toll-gate. "'A fine specimen of a man, for sure,' remarked Johnny Cullen, the apprentice. "'You may take your Bible oath on that,' sighed Mistress Polly, who was inclined to be sentimental. "'Speak in as the poets,' pronounced Mr. Clutterbuck sententiously, "'inches don't make a man.' "'For fine clothes, neither,' added Master Jezad, who did not approve of Mistress Polly's sentimental sigh. "'There's my lady,' gassed Miss Barbara suddenly, clutching Master Clutterbuck's arm vigorously. "'Lud, but she is beautiful to-day.' Beautiful indeed, and radiant with youth and happiness, Margaret Blakeney had just gone through the gates and was walking along the sword towards the bandstand. She was dressed in clinging robes of shimmery green texture, the new-fashioned high-waisted effect suiting her graceful figure to perfection. The large Charlotte, made of velvet to match the gown, cast a deep shadow over the upper part of her face, and gave a peculiar softness to the outline of her forehead and cheeks. Long lace mittens covered her arms and hands, and a scarf of diaphanous material, edged with dull gold, hung loosely around her shoulders. Yes, she was beautiful. No captious chronicler has ever denied that, and no one who knew her before, and who saw her again on this late summer's afternoon, could fail to mark the additional charm of her magnetic personality. There was a tenderness in her face as she turned her head to and fro, a joy of living in her eyes that was quite irresistibly fascinating. Just now she was talking animatedly with the young girl who was walking beside her, and laughing merrily the while. Nay, we'll find your poor, never-fear, lad-child, have you forgotten he is in England now, and that there's no fear of his being kidnapped here on the green and broad daylight? The young girl gave a slight shudder, and her childlike face became a shade paler than before. She took her hand and gave it a kindly pressure. Juliet Marnie, but lately come to England, saved from under the very knife of the guillotine by a timely and daring rescue, could scarcely believe as yet that she and the man she loved were really out of danger. There is Monsieur de Roulette, said Marguerite after a slight pause, giving the young girl time to recover herself and point into a group of men close by. He is among friends, as you see. They made such a pretty picture, these two women, as they stood together for a moment on the green, with the brilliant September sun throwing golden reflections and luminous shadows on their slender forms. Marguerite, tall and queen-like in her rich gown and costly jewels, wearing with glorious pride the invisible crown of happy wifehood. Juliet, slim and girlish, dressed all in white with a soft straw hat on her fair curls, and bearing on an otherwise young and childlike face the hard imprint of the terrible suffering she had undergone, of the deftly moral battle her tender soul had had to fight. A group of friends joined them. Paul de Roulette among these, also Sir Andrew and Lady Folks, and strolling slowly towards them, his hands buried in the pockets of his fine cloth-bridges, his broad shoulders set to advantage in a coat of immaculate cut, priceless lace ruffles at neck and wrist, came the inimitable Sir Percy. CHAPTER V To all appearances he had not changed since those early days of matrimony, when his young wife dazzled London's society by her wit and by her beauty, and he was one of the many satellites that helped to bring into bold relief the brilliance of her presence, of her sallies, and of her smiles. His friends alone may have, and of these only an intimate few, had understood that beneath that self-same, lazy manner, those shy and awkward ways, that half inane, half cynical laugh, there now lurked an undercurrent of tender and passionate happiness. That Lady Blakeney was in love with her own husband, nobody could fail to see, and in the more frivolous cliques of fashionable London this extraordinary phenomenon had often been eagerly discussed. A monstrous thing of a truth for a woman of fashion to adore her own husband, was the universal pronouncement of the gaily decked little well that centred around Carlton House in Ranlar. Not that Sir Percy Blakeney was unpopular with the fair sex, far bearded from the voracious chronicler's mind even to suggest such a thing. The ladies would have voted any gathering dull if Sir Percy's witty sallies did not bring from end to end of the dancing hall if his new satin coat and broided waistcoat did not call for comment or admiration. But that was the frivolous set to which Lady Blakeney had never belonged. It was well known that she had always viewed her good-natured husband as the most willing and most natural butt for her caustic wit. She still was fond of aiming a shaft or two at him, and he was still equally ready to let the shaft glance harmlessly against the flawless shield of his own imperturbable good-humour. But now, contrary to all precedent, to all usages and customs of London society, Marguerite's seldom was seen at routes or at the opera without her husband. She accompanied him to all the races, and even one night of horror had danced the gavotte with him. Society shuddered and wondered, trying to put Lady Blakeney's sudden infatuation down to foreign eccentricity, and finally consoled herself with the thought that, after all, this nonsense could not last, and that she was too clever a woman and he too perfect a gentleman to keep up this abnormal state of things for any length of time. In the meanwhile, the ladies averred that this matrimonial love was a very one-sided affair. No one could assert that Sir Percy was anything but politely indifferent to his wife's obvious attentions. His lazy eyes never once lighted up when she entered a ballroom, and there were those who knew for a fact that her ladyship spent many lonely days in her beautiful home at Richmond, whilst her lord in master absented himself with persistence if unshivalrous regularity. His presence at the gala had been a surprise to everyone, for all thought him still away, fishing in Scotland or shooting in Yorkshire, anywhere saved close to the apron strings of his doting wife. He himself seemed conscious of the fact that he had not been expected at this end of summer fate, for as he strode forward to meet his wife and Juliet Marnie, and acknowledged with a bow here and a nod there the many greetings from subordinates and friends, there was quite an apologetic air about his good-looking face, and an obvious shyness in his smile. But Marguerite gave a happy little laugh as she saw him coming towards her. "'Oh, Sir Percy!' she said gaily, and pray, have you seen the show? I vowed, is the maddest, merriest throng I've seen for many a day. Nay, but for the sighs and shudders of my poor little Juliet, I should be enjoying one of the liveliest days of my life.' She patted Juliet's arm affectionately. "'You not shame me before Sir Percy,' murmured the young girl, casting shy glances at the elegant cavalier before her, vainly trying to find in the indolent, foppish personality of this society butterfly some trace of the daring man of action, the bold adventurer who had snatched her and her lover from out the very tumble that bore them both to death. "'I know I ought to be gay,' she continued with an attempt at a smile. "'I ought to forget everything, save what I owe to.' Sir Percy's laugh broke in on her half-finished sentence. Ludd! "'And to think of all that I ought not to forget,' he said loudly. "'Tony here has been clamouring for iced punch this last half-hour, and I promised to find a booth where in the noble liquid is probably dispensed. Within half an hour from now his royal highness will be here. I assure you, madmoselle Juliet, that from that time onwards I have to endure the qualms of the damned, for the heir to Great Britain's throne always can try us to be thirsty when I am satiated, which is tantalise's torture magnified a thousandfold, or to be satiated when my parched palate most require solace. In either case I am a most pitiable man.' "'In either case you can try to talk a deal of nonsense, Sir Percy,' said Marguerite Gailey. "'What else would your ladyship have me do this lazy hot afternoon?' "'Come and view the booths with me,' she said. "'I am dying for a sight of the fat woman and the lean man, the pig-faced child, the dwarfs and the giants. "'There! Monsieur des Roulettes,' she added, turning to the young Frenchman who be standing close beside her, "'take madmoselle Juliette to hear the clever sound-players. I vow she is tired of my company.' The gaily dressed group was breaking up. Juliette and Paul des Roulettes were only two ready to stroll off arm in arm together, and Sir Andrew Folks was ever in attendance on his young wife. For one moment Marguerite caught her husband's eye. No one was within ear-shot. "'Pussy,' she said. "'Yes, my dear.' "'When did you return? Only this morning.' "'You crossed over from Calais?' "'From Boulogne.' "'Why did you not let me know sooner?' "'I could not, dear. I arrived at my lodgings in town looking a disgusting object. I could not appear before you until I had washed some of the French mud from off my person. Then his royal highness demanded my presence. He wanted news of the Duchess de Verneuil, whom I had the honour of escorting over from France. By the time I had told him all that he wished to hear, there was no chance of finding you at home, and I thought I should see you here.' Marguerite said nothing for a moment, but her foot impatiently tapped the ground, and her fingers were fidgeting with the gold fringe of her scarf. The look of joy, of exquisite happiness, seemed to have suddenly vanished from her face. There was a deep furrow between her brows. She sighed a short, sharp sigh, and cast a rapid upward glance at her husband. He was looking down at her, smiling good-naturedly, a trifle sarcastically, perhaps, and the frown on her face deepened. "'Pussy,' she said abruptly. "'Yes, my dear.' "'These anxieties are terrible to bear. You have been twice over to France within the last month, dealing with your life as lightly as if it did not now belong to me. When will you give up these mad adventures, and leave others to fight their own battles, and to save their own lives as best they may?' She had spoken with increased vehemence, although her voice was scarce raised above a whisper. Even in her sudden, passionate anger, she was on her guard not to betray his secret. He did not reply immediately, but seemed to be studying the beautiful face on which heartbroken anxiety was now distinctly imprinted. Then he turned and looked at the solitary booth in the distance, across the frontal of which a large placard had recently been affixed, bearing the words, come and see the true representation of the guillotine. In front of the booth, a man dressed in ragged britches with frigid cap on his head, adorned with a tricolor cocaine, was vigorously beating a drum, shouting volubly the while, "'Come in and see, come in and see, the only realistic presentation of the original guillotine, hundreds perish in Paris every day, come and see, come and see, the perfectly vivid performance of what goes on hourly in Paris at the present moment.'" Marguerite had followed the direction of Sir Percy's eyes. She too was looking at the booth. She heard the man's monotonous, raucous cries. She gave a slight shudder, and once more looked imploringly at her husband. His face, though outwardly as lazy and calm as before, had a strange set look about the mouth and firm jaw, and his slender hand—the hand of a dandy accustomed to handle cards and dice and to play lightly with the foils—was clutched tightly beneath the folds of the priceless Meshlam frills. It was but a momentary stiffening of the whole powerful frame, an instant flash of the ruling passion hidden within that very secretive soul. Then he once more turned towards her, the rigid lines of his face relaxed, he broke into a pleasant laugh, and with the most elaborate and most courtly bow, he took her hand in his, and raising her fingers to his lips, he gave the answer to her questions. When your ladyship has ceased to be the most admired woman in Europe—namely, when I am in my grave. CHAPTER VI. For the poor of Paris. There was no time to say more then, for the laughing, chatting groups of friends had once more closed up round Marguerite and her husband, and she, ever on the alert, gave neither look nor sign that any serious conversation had taken place between her Percy and herself. Whatever she might feel or dread with regard to the foolhardy adventures in which he still persistently embarked, no member of the league ever guarded the secret of his chief more loyally than did Marguerite Blakeney. Though her heart overflowed with a passionate pride in her husband, she was clever enough to conceal every emotion saved that which nature had insisted on imprinting in her face, her present radiant happiness and her irresistible love. And thus before the world she kept up that bantering way with him, which had characterised her earlier matrimonial life, that good-natured, easy contempt which he had so readily accepted in those days, and which their entourage would have missed and would have inquired after, if she had changed her manner towards him too suddenly. In her heart she knew full well that within Percy Blakeney's soul she had a great and powerful rival. His wild, mad, passionate love of adventure. For it he would sacrifice everything, even his life. She dared not ask herself if he would sacrifice his love. Twice in a few weeks he had been over to France. Every time he went she could not know if she would ever see him again. She could not imagine how the French Committee of Public Safety could so clumsily allow the hated scarlet pimpanel to slip through its fingers. But she never attempted either to warn him or to beg him not to go. When he brought Paul de Roulève and Juliette Marnier over from France, her heart went out to the two young people in sheer gladness and pride, because of his precious life which he had risked for them. She loved Juliette for the dangers Percy had passed, for the anxieties she herself had endured. Only to-day in the midst of this beautiful sunshine, this joy of the earth, of summer and of the sky, she had suddenly felt a mad, overpowering anxiety, a deadly hatred of the wild, adventurous life which took him so often away from her side. His pleasant, bantering reply precluded her following up the subject, whilst the merry chatter of people round her warned her to keep her words and looks under control. But she seemed now to feel the want of being alone, and somehow that distant booth with its flaring placard and the crier in the frigid cap exercised a weird fascination over her. Instinctively she bent her steps thither, and equally instinctively the idle throng of her friends followed her. Percy alone had halted in order to converse with Lord Hastings, who had just arrived. "'Surely, Lady Blakeney, you have no thought of patronising that gruesome spectacle,' said Lord Antony Dewhurst, as Marguerite almost mechanically had paused within a few yards of the solitary booth. "'I don't know,' she said, with enforced gaiety. "'The place seems to attract me. And I need not look at the spectacle,' she added significantly as she pointed to a roughly scribbled notice at the entrance of the tent, in aid of the starving poor of Paris. "'There's a good-looking woman who sings, and a hideous mechanical toy that moves,' said one of the young men in the crowd. "'It is very dark and close inside the tent. I was lured in there for my sins, and was in a mighty hurry to come out again. "'Then it must be my sins that are helping to lure me, too, at the present moment,' said Marguerite lightly. "'I pray you all to let me go in there. I want to hear the good-looking woman sing, even if I do not see the hideous toy on the move.' "'May I escort you, then, Lady Blakeney,' said Lord Tony. "'Nay, I would rather go in alone,' she replied, a trifle impatiently. "'I beg of you not to heath my whim, and to await my return there, where the music is at its merriest.'" It had been bad manners to insist. Marguerite, with a little comprehensive nod to all her friends, left the young cavaliers still protesting and quickly passed beneath the roughly constructed doorway that gave access into the booth. A man, dressed in theatrical rags and wearing the characteristic scarlet cap, stood immediately within the entrance, and ostentatiously rattled the money-box at regular intervals. For the starving poor of Paris, he drawled out in nasal, monotonous tones the moment he caught sight of Marguerite and of her rich gown. She dropped some gold into the box, and then passed on. The interior of the booth was dark and lonely looking after the glare of the hot September sun, and the noisy crowd that thronged the sword outside. Evidently a performance had just taken place on the elevated platform beyond, for a few yokels seemed to be lingering in a disultory manner as if preparatory to going out. A few disjointed comments reached Marguerite's ears as she approached, and the small groups parted to allow her to pass. One or two women gaped in astonishment at her beautiful dress, whilst others bobbed a respectful curtsy. The mechanical toy arrested her attention immediately. She did not find it as gruesome as she expected, really singularly grotesque, with all those little wooden figures in their quaint, arrested action. She drew nearer to have a better look, and the yokels who had lingered behind paused, wondering if she would make any remark. Her ladyship was born in France, murmured one of the men close to her. She would know if the thing really looks like that. She do seem interested, quote another in a whisper. "'Lud, love us all,' said a buxom wench, who was clinging to the arm of a nervous-looking youth. I believe they're coming for more money.' On the elevated platform at the further end of the tent, a slim figure had just made its appearance, that of a young woman dressed in peculiarly somber colours, and with a black lace hood thrown lightly over her head. Marguerite thought that the face seemed familiar to her, and she also noticed that the woman carried a large, embroidered reticule in her be-mitten hand. There was a general exodus the moment she appeared. The richmen yokels did not like the look of that reticule. They felt that sufficient demand had already been made upon their scant purses, considering the meagerness of the entertainment, and they dreaded being lured to further extravagance. When Marguerite turned away from the mechanical toy, the last of the little crowd had disappeared, and she was alone in the booth with the woman in the dark-curtle and black lace hood. "'For the boar of Paris, madame,' said the latter mechanically, holding out her reticule. Marguerite was looking at her intently. The face certainly seemed familiar, recalling to her mind the far-off days in Paris before she married. Some young actress, no doubt driven out of France by that terrible turmoil which had caused so much sorrow and so much suffering. The face was pretty, the figure slim and elegant, and the look of obvious sadness in the dark, almond-shaped eyes was calculated to inspire sympathy and pity. Yet strangely enough, Lady Blakeney felt repelled and chilled by this somberly dressed young person. An instinct which she could not have explained, and which she felt had no justification, warned her that somehow or other, the sadness was not quite genuine, the appeal for the poor not quite heartfelt. Nevertheless, she took out her purse, and dropping some few sovereigns into the capacious reticule, she said very kindly, "'I hope that you are satisfied with your day's work, madame. I fear me our British country folk hold the strings of their purses somewhat tightly these times.' The woman sighed and shrugged her shoulders. "'Oh, madame,' she said, with a tone of great dejection, one does what one can for one's starving countrymen, but it is very hard to elicit sympathy over here for them, poor dears. "'You are a French woman, of course,' rejoined Marguerite, who had noted that though the woman spoke English with a very pronounced foreign accent, she had nevertheless expressed herself with wonderful fluency and correctness. "'Just like Lady Blakeney herself,' replied the other. "'You know who I am?' "'Who could come to Richmond, and not know Lady Blakeney by sight?' "'But what made you come to Richmond on this philanthropic errand of yours? "'I go where I think there is a chance of earning a little money for the cause which I have at heart,' replied the French woman, with the same gentle simplicity, the same tone of mournful dejection.' What she said was undoubtedly noble and selfless. Lady Blakeney felt in her heart that her keenest sympathy should have gone out to this young woman—pretty, dainty, hardly more than a girl—who seemed to be devoting her young life in a purely philanthropic and unselfish cause. And yet, in spite of herself, Marguerite seemed unable to shake off that curious sense of mistrust which had assailed her from the first, nor that feeling of unreality and staginess, with which the French woman's attitude had originally struck her. Yet she tried to be kind, to be cordial, tried to hide that coldness in her manner which she felt was unjustified. "'It is all very praiseworthy on your part, madame,' she said, somewhat lamely. "'Madame,' she added, interrogatively. "'My name is Candet. Desiré Candet,' replied the French woman. "'Candet?' exclaimed Marguerite, with sudden alacrity. "'Candet, surely—yes, of the variété.' "'Ah! then I know why your face from the first seemed familiar to me,' said Marguerite, this time with unaffected cordiality. "'I must have applauded you many a time in the olden days. I am an ex-colleague, you know. My name was Saint-Just before I married, and I was of the Maison-Molière. "'I knew that,' said Desiré Candet, and half-hoped that you would remember me. "'Nay! Who could forget Demoiselle Candet, the most popular star in the theatrical firmament? Oh! That was so long ago. Only four years?' A fallen star is soon lost out of sight. "'Why fallen? It was a choice for me between exile from France and the guillotine,' rejoined Candet simply. "'Surely not,' queried Marguerite, with a touch of genuine sympathy. With characteristic impulsiveness, she had now cast aside her former misgivings. She had conquered her mistrust, at any rate had relegated it to the background of her mind. This woman was a colleague. She had suffered and was in distress. She had every claim, therefore, on a compatriot's help and friendship. She stretched out her hand and took Desiré Candet's in her own. She forced herself to feel nothing but admiration for this young woman, whose whole attitude spoke of sorrows nobly born, of misfortunes proudly endured. "'I don't know why I should sadden you with my story,' rejoined Desiré Candet after a slight pause, during which she seemed to be waging war against her own emotion. "'It is not a very interesting one. Hundreds have suffered as I did. I had enemies in Paris. God knows how that happened. I had never harmed any one. But some one must have hated me, and must have wished me ill. Evil is so easily wrought in France these days. A denunciation, a perquisition, an accusation, then the flight from Paris, the forged passports, the disguise, the bribe, the hardships, the squalid hiding-places—oh, I have gone through it all—tasted every kind of humiliation, endured every kind of insult. Remember, that I was not a noble aristocrat, a duchess or an impoverished countess,' she added with marked bitterness, or perhaps the English cavalier, whom the popular voice has called the League of the Scalid Pimpinel, would have taken some interest in me. I was only a poor actress, and had to find my way out of France alone, or else perish on the guillotine. "'I am so sorry,' said Marguerite, simply. "'Tell me how you got on, once you were in England,' she continued after a while, seeing that Desiré Candet seemed absorbed in thought. "'I had a few engagements at first,' replied the Frenchwoman. I played at Saddler's Wells, and with Mrs. Jordan at Covent Garden. But the alien's bill put an end to my chances of livelihood. No manager cared to give me a part, and so—' And so? Oh! I had a few jewels, and I sold them—a little money, and I live on that. But when I played at Covent Garden, I can drive to send part of my salary over to some of the poorer clubs of Paris. My heart aches for those that are starving—poor riches. They are misguided and misled by self-seeking demagogues. It hurts me to feel that I can do nothing more to help them, and eases my self-respect if by singing at the public fairs I can still send a few francs to those who are poorer than myself. She had spoken with ever-increasing passion and vehemence—Marguerite with eyes fixed into vacancy, seeing neither the speaker nor her surroundings, seeing only visions of those same poor wreckages of humanity, who had been goaded into thirst for blood when their shrunken body should have been clamoring for healthy food—Marguerite, thus absorbed, had totally forgotten her earlier prejudices, and now completely failed to note all that was unreal, stagey, theatrical, in the oratorical declamations of the ex-actress from the Varyetée. Preeminently true and loyal herself, in spite of the many deceptions and treacheries which she had witnessed in her life, she never looked for falsehood or for cant in others. Even now she only saw before her a woman who had been wrongfully persecuted, who had suffered and had forgiven those who had caused her to suffer. She bitterly accused herself for her original mistrust of this noble-hearted, unselfish woman, who was content to tramp around in an alien country, bartering her talents for a few coins, in order that some of those who were the originators of her sorrows might have bread to eat, and a bed in which to sleep. —Mademoiselle—she said warmly—truly you shame me, who am also French-born, with the many sacrifices you so nobly make for those who should have first claim on my own sympathy. Believe me, if I have not done as much as duty demanded of me and the cause of my starving compatriots, it has not been for lack of goodwill. Is there any way now—she added eagerly—in which I can help you? Putting aside the question of money wherein I pray you to command my assistance, what can I do to be of useful service to you? You are very kind, Lady Blakeney, said the other, hesitatingly. Well, what is it? I see there is something in your mind. It is perhaps difficult to express, but people say I have a good voice. I sing some French ditties—they are a novelty in England, I think. If I could sing them in fashionable salons, I might perhaps—ne, you shall sing in fashionable salons, exclaimed Marguerite eagerly. You shall become the fashion, and I'll swear the Prince of Wales himself shall bid you sing at Carleton House, and you shall name your own Fee, mademoiselle, and London society shall vie with the elite of Bath, as to which shall lure you to its most frequented routes. There, there! You shall make a fortune for the Paris poor, and to prove to you that I mean every word I say, you shall begin your triumphant career in my own salon to-morrow night. His Royal Highness will be present. You shall sing your most engaging songs, and for your Fee you must accept a hundred guineas, which you shall send to the poorest workman's club in Paris in the name of Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney. I thank your ladyship, but—you're not refused. I'll accept gladly, but you will understand. I am not very old, said Candet quaintly. I—I am only an actress, but if a young actress is unprotected, then— I understand, replied Marguerite gently, that you are far too pretty to frequent the world all alone, and that you have a mother, or a sister, or a friend, which—whom you would wish to escort you to-morrow? Is that it? Nay, rejoined the actress with marked bitterness. I have neither mother nor sister, but our revolutionary government, with tardy compassion for those it has so relentlessly driven out of France, has deputed a representative of theirs in England to look after the interests of French subjects over here. Yes? They have realized over in Paris that my life here has been devoted to the welfare of the poor people in France, the representative whom the government has sent to England especially interested in me and in my work. He is a standby for me in case of trouble, in case of insults. A woman alone is often subject to those, even at the hands of so-called gentlemen. And the official representative of my own country becomes in such cases my most natural protector. I understand? You will receive him? Certainly. Then may I present him to your ladyship? Whenever you like. Now, if it please you? Now? Yes. Here he comes at your ladyship's service. Desirée Candet's almond-shaped eyes were fixed upon a distant part of the tent behind Lady Blakeney in the direction of the main entrance to the booth. There was a slight pause after she had spoken, and then Marguerite slowly turned in order to see who this official representative of France was, whom, at the young actress' request, she had just agreed to receive in her house. In the doorway of the tent, framed by its gaudy draperies, and with the streaming sunshine as a brilliant background behind him, stood the sable-clad figure of Chauvelin. Premonition Marguerite neither moved nor spoke. She felt two pairs of eyes fixed upon her, and with all the strength of will at her command she forced the very blood in her veins not to quit her cheeks, forced her eyelids not to betray by a single quiver the icy pang of a deadly premonition which at sight of Chauvelin seemed to have chilled her entire soul. Where he stood before her, dressed in his usual somber garments, a look almost of humility in those keen gray eyes of his, which a year ago, on the cliffs of Calais, had peered down at her with such relentless hate. Strange that at this moment she should have felt an instinct of fear. What cause had she to throw more than a pitiful glance at the man who had tried so cruelly to wrong her, and who had so signally failed? Being bowed very low and very respectfully, Chauvelin advanced toward her, with all the heirs of a disgraced courtier craving audience from his queen. As he approached she instinctively drew back. "'Would you prefer not to speak to me, Lady Blakeney?' he said humbly. She could scarcely believe her ears or trust her eyes. It seemed impossible that a man could have so changed in a few months. He looked even shorter than last year, more shrunken within himself. His hair, which he wore free from powder, was perceptibly tinged with gray. "'Shall I withdraw?' he added after a pause, seeing that Marguerite made no movement to return his salutation. "'It would be best, perhaps,' she replied coldly. "'You and I, Monsieur Chauvelin, have so little to say to one another.' "'Very little indeed,' he rejoined quietly. The triumphant and happy have ever very little to say to the humiliated and the defeated. But I had hoped that Lady Blakeney in the midst of her victory would have spared one thought of pity and one of pardon. I did not know that you had need of either from me, Monsieur. Pity perhaps not, but forgiveness certainly. You have that, if you so desire it. Since I failed, you might try to forget. That is beyond my power, but believe me, I have ceased to think of the infinite wrong which you try to do to me. But I failed,' he insisted, and I meant no harm to you. "'To those I care for, Monsieur Chauvelin. I had to serve my country as best I could. I meant no harm to your brother. He is safe in England now, and the scarlet pimpenel was nothing to you.' She tried to read his face, tried to discover in those inscrutable eyes of his some hidden meaning to his words. Instinct had warned her, of course, that this man could be nothing but an enemy, always and at all times. But he seemed so broken, so abject now, that contempt for his dejected attitude and for the defeat which had been inflicted on him chased the last remnant of fear from her heart. I did not even succeed in harming that enigmatic personage, continued Chauvelin with the same self-abasement. So Percy Blakeney, you remember, threw himself across my plans quite innocently, of course. I failed where you succeeded. Luck has deserted me. Our government offered me a humble post away from France. I look after the interests of French subjects settled in England. My days of power are over. My failure is complete. I do not complain, for I failed in a combat of wits. But I failed. I failed. I failed. I am almost a fugitive, and I am quite disgraced. That is my present history, Lady Blakeney, he concluded, taking once more a stepped order. And you will understand that it would be a solace if you extended your hand to me just once more, and let me feel that, although you would never willingly look upon my face again, you have enough womanly tenderness in you to force your heart to forgiveness and may hap to pity." Marguerite hesitated. He held out his hand, and her warm impulsive nature prompted her to be kind. But instinct would not be gainsaid, a curious instinct to which she refused to respond. What had she to fear from this miserable and cringing little worm who had not even in him the pride of defeat? What harm could he do to her, or to those whom she loved? Her brother was in England? Her husband? Bah! Not the enmity of the entire world could make her fear for him. Nay! That instinct, which caused her to draw away from Chauvelin as she would from a venomous asp, was certainly not fear. It was hate. She hated this man, hated him for all that she had suffered because of him, for that terrible night on the cliffs of Calais, the peril to her husband who had become so infinitely dear, the humiliations and self-reproaches which he had endured. Yes, it was hate, and hate was of all emotions the one she most despised—hate. Does one hate a slimy but harmless toad or a stinging fly? It seemed ridiculous, contemptible, impitiable to think of hate in connection with the melancholy figure of this discomfited intrigue, this fallen leader of revolutionary France. He was holding out his hand to her. If she placed even the tips of her fingers upon it, she would be making the compact of mercy and forgiveness which she was asking of her. The woman, Desiree Candet, roused within her the last lingering vestige of her slumbering wrath—false, theatrical and stagey, as Marguerite had originally suspected, she appeared to have been in league with Chauvelin to bring about this undesirable meeting. Lady Blakeney turned from one to another, trying to conceal her contempt beneath the mask of passionless indifference. Candet was standing close by, looking obviously distressed and not a little puzzled. An instant's reflection was sufficient to convince Marguerite that the Willam actress of the Varieté Theatre was obviously ignorant of the events to which Chauvelin had been alluding. She was, therefore, of no serious consequence—a mere tool, may have, in the ex-ambassador's hands. At the present moment, she looked like a silly child who does not understand the conversation of the grown-ups. Marguerite had promised her help and protection, had invited her to her house, and offered her a magnificent gift in aid of a deserving cause. She was too proud to go back now on that promise, to rescind the contract because of an unexplainable fear. With regard to Chauvelin, the matter stood differently. She had made him no direct offer of hospitality. She had agreed to receive in her house the official chaperone of an unprotected girl, but she was not called upon to show cordiality to her own and her husband's most deadly enemy. She was ready to dismiss him out of her life with a cursory word of pardon and a half-expressed promise of oblivion. On that understanding, and that only, she was ready to let her hand rest for the space of one second in his. She had looked upon her fallen enemy, seen his discomforture and his humiliation. Very well. Now let him pass out of her life all the more easily, since the last vision of him would be one of such utter abjection as would be even unworthy of hate. All these thoughts, feelings, and struggles pass through her mind with great rapidity. Her hesitation had lasted less than five seconds. Chauvelin still wore the look of doubting entreaty with which she had first begged permission to take her hand in his. With an impulsive toss of the head, she had turned straight towards him, ready with the phrase with which she meant to dismiss him from her sight now and for ever, when suddenly a well-known laugh broke in upon her ear, and a lazy, drawly voice said pleasantly, "'La! I vow the heiress fit to poison you. Your royal highness, I entreat. Let us turn our backs upon these gates of inferno, where lost souls would feel more at home than doth your humble servant.' The next moment, his royal highness, the Prince of Wales, had entered the tent, closely followed by Sir Percy Blakeney. CHAPTER VIII. It was in truth a strange situation, this chance meeting between Percy Blakeney and ex-Ambassador Chauvelin. Marguerite looked up at her husband. She saw him shrug his broad shoulders as he first caught sight of Chauvelin, and glanced down in his usual, lazy, good-humoured manner at the shrunken figure of the silent Frenchman. The words she meant to say never crossed her lips. She was waiting to hear what the two men would say to one another. The instinct of the grand dam in her, the fashionable lady accustomed to the exigencies of society, just gave her sufficient presence of mind to make the requisite low curtsy before his royal highness. But the Prince, forgetting his accustomed gallantry, was also absorbed in the little scene before him. He, too, was looking from the sable-clad figure of Chauvelin to that of gorgeously arrayed Sir Percy. He, too, like Marguerite, was wondering what was passing behind the low, smooth forad of that inimitable dandy, what behind the inscrutably good-humoured expression of those sleepy eyes. Of the five persons thus present in the dark and stuffy booth, certainly Sir Percy Blakeney seemed the least perturbed. He had paused just long enough to allow Chauvelin to become fully conscious of a feeling of supreme irritation and annoyance. Then he strolled up to the ex-ambassador with hand outstretched and the most engaging of smiles. Ha! he said, with his usual half-shy, half-pleasant, tempered smile. My engaging friend from France! I hope, sir, that our damned climate doth find you well and hearty to-day. The cheerful voice seemed to ease the tension. He'd sighed a sigh of relief. After all, what was more natural than that Percy, with his amazing fund of pleasant irresponsibility, should thus greet the man who had once vowed to bring him to the guillotine. Chauvelin himself, accustomed by now to the audacious coolness of his enemy, was scarcely taken by surprise. He bowed low to his highness, who, vastly amused at Blakeney's sally, was inclined to be gracious to every one, even though the personality of Chauvelin as a well-known leader of the regicide government was inherently distasteful to him. But the prince saw in the whiz and little figure before him an obvious butt for his friend Blakeney's impertinent shafts, and although historians have been unable to assert positively whether or no George Prince of Wales knew ought of Sir Percy's dual life, yet there is no doubt that he was always ready to enjoy a situation which brought about the discomforture of any of the scarlet pimpenels of our enemies. I, too, have not met Mr. Chauvelin for many a long month, said his royal highness, with an obvious show of irony, and I mistake not, sir, you left my father's court somewhat abruptly last year. Nay, your royal highness, said Percy Gailey. My friend Monsieur Chauvelin, and I, had serious business to discuss which could only be dealt with in France. Am I not right, monsieur? Quite right, Sir Percy, replied Chauvelin, curtly. We had to discuss abominable soup and calais, had we not, continued Blakeney in the same tone of easy banter, and wine that I vowed was vinegar. Monsieur Chauvelin—no, no, I beg your pardon—Chauvelin. Monsieur Chauvelin and I quite agreed upon that point. The only matter on which we were not quite at one was the question of snuff. Snuff! laughed his royal highness, who seemed vastly amused. Yes, your royal highness, snuff. Monsieur Chauvelin here had, if I may be allowed to say so, so vitiated a taste in snuff that he prefers it with an admixture of pepper. Is that not so, monsieur, uh, Chaubertin? Chauvelin, Sir Percy, remarked the ex-ambassador, dryly. He was determined not to lose his temper and looked urbane and pleasant, whilst his impudent enemy was enjoying a joke at his expense. Marguerite the while had not taken her eyes off the keen, shrewd face. Whilst the three men talked, she seemed suddenly to have lost her sense of the reality of things. The present situation appeared to her strangely familiar, like a dream which she had dreamt of times before. Suddenly it became absolutely clear to her that the whole scene had been arranged and planned. The booth with its flaring placard, de Moiselle Candet soliciting her patronage, her invitation to the young actress, Chauvelin's sudden appearance, all, all had been concocted and arranged, not here, not in England at all, but out there in Paris, in some dark gathering of bloodthirsty ruffians who had invented a final trap for the destruction of the bold adventurer who went by the name of the scarlet pimpenel. And she also was only a puppet, enacting a part which had been written for her. She had acted just as they had anticipated, had spoken the very words they had meant her to say, and when she looked at Percy, he seemed supremely ignorant of it all, unconscious of this trap of the existence of which every one here present was aware, save indeed himself. She would have fought against this weird feeling of obsession, of being a mechanical toy, wound up to do certain things, but this she could not do. Her will appeared paralysed, her tongue even refused her service. As in a dream she heard his royal highness ask for the name of the young actress who was soliciting arms for the poor of Paris. That also had been pre-arranged. His royal highness, for the moment, was also a puppet, made a dance, to speak and to act as Chauvelin and his colleagues over in France had decided that he should. Quite mechanically, Marguerite introduced a Moiselle Candet to the prince's gracious notice. If your highness will permit, she said, Mademoiselle Candet will give us some of her charming old French songs at my route to-morrow. By all means, by all means, said the prince, I used to know some in my childhood days, charming and poetic. I know, I know, we shall be delighted to hear Mademoiselle sing, eh, Blakeney? he added, good-humidly. And for your route to-morrow will you not also invite Monsieur Chauvelin? Nay, but that goes without saying your royal highness responded so Percy with hospitable alacrity, and a most approved bow directed at his arch-enemy. We shall expect Monsieur Chauvelin. He and I have not met for so long, and he shall be made right welcome at Blakeney Manor. CHAPTER IX Her origin was of the humblest, for her mother, so it was said, had been kitchen-made in the household of the Duc de Marnis, but Deseret had received some kind of education, and though she began life as a dresser in one of the minor theatres of Paris, she became ultimately one of its most popular stars. She was small and dark, dainty in her manner and ways, and with a graceful little figure, peculiarly supple and sinuous. Her humble origin certainly did not betray itself in her hands and feet, which were exquisite in shape and lilliputian in size. Her hair was soft and glossy, always free from powder, and cunningly arranged so as to slightly overshadow the upper part of her face. The chin was small and round, the mouth extraordinarily red, the neck slender and long. But she was not pretty, so said all the women. Her skin was rather coarse in texture and darkish in colour. Her eyes were narrow and slightly turned upwards at the corners. No, she was distinctly not pretty. Yet she pleased the men, perhaps because she was so artlessly determined to please them. The women said that Demoiselle Candet never left a man alone until she had succeeded in captivating his fancy, if only for five minutes. An interval in a dance, the time to cross a muddy road. But for five minutes she was determined to hold any man's complete attention, and to exact his admiration. And she nearly always succeeded. Therefore the women hated her. The men were amused. It is extremely pleasant to have one's admiration compelled, one's attention so determinately sought after. And Candet could be extremely amusing, and as Madeleine and Molière's l'épressueuse was quite inimitable. This however was in the olden days, just before Paris went quite mad, before the reign of terror had set in, and si devant lui the king had been executed. Candet had taken it into her follic' some little head, that she would like to go to London. The idea was, of course, in the nature of an experiment. Those dull English people over the water knew so little of what good acting really meant. Tragedy? Well, passons. Their heavy, large-boned actresses might manage one or two big scenes where a commanding presence and a powerful voice would not come amiss, and where prominent teeth would pass unnoticed in the agony of a dramatic climax. But comedy? Ah! Saint-Nope, par exemple. Demoiselle Candet had seen several English gentlemen and ladies in those same olden days at the Tuileries, but she really could not imagine any of them enacting the piquant scenes of Molière, au Beaumarchais. Demoiselle Candet thought of every English-born individual as having very large teeth. Now large teeth do not lend themselves to well-spoken comedy scenes, to smiles or to double entendre. Her own teeth were exceptionally small and white and very sharp, like those of a kitten. Yes. Demoiselle Candet thought it would be extremely interesting to go to London and to show to a nation of shopkeepers how daintily one can be amused in a theatre. Permission to depart from Paris was easy to obtain. In fact, the fair lady had never really found it difficult to obtain anything she very much wanted. In this case, she had plenty of friends in high places. Mara was still alive and a great lover of the theatre. Dalian was a personal admirer of hers. Deputy Dubon would do anything she asked. She wanted to act in London, at a theatre called Drury Lane. She wanted to play Molière in England in French, and had already spoken with several of her colleagues who were ready to join her. They would give public representations in aid of the starving population of France. There were plenty of socialistic clubs in London quite Jacobin and revolutionary in tendency. Their members would give her full support. She would be serving her country and her countrymen, and incidentally see something of the world and amuse herself. She was bored in Paris. Then she thought of Margrit Saint-Just, once of the Maison Molière, who had captivated an English milieu of enormous wealth. Demoiselle Candet had never been of the Maison Molière. She had been the leading star of one of the minor, yet much-frequented theatres of Paris, but she felt herself quite able and ready to captivate some other unattached milaure, who would load her with English money and incidentally bestow an English name upon her. So she went to London. The experiment, however, had not proved an unmitigated success. At first she and her company did obtain a few engagements at one or two of the minor theatres, to give representations of some of the French classical comedies in the original language. But these never quite became the fashion. The feeling against France and all her doings was far too keen in that very set which Demoiselle Candet had desired to captivate with her talents, to allow of the English jeunesse doré to flock incy Molière played in French by a French troupe, whilst Candet's own compatriots resident in England had given her but scant support. One section of these, the aristocrats and emigres, looked upon the actress who was a friend of all the Jacobins in Paris, as nothing better than Cannae. They sedulously ignored her presence in this country, and snubbed her whenever they had an opportunity. The other section, chiefly consisting of agents and spies of the revolutionary government, she would gladly have ignored. They had at first made a constant demand on her purse, her talents, and her time. Then she grew tired of them, and felt more and more cherry of being identified with a set which was in such ill odour with that very same jeunesse doré whom Candet had desired to please. In her own country she was, and always had been, a good Republican. Marat had given her her first start in life by his violent praises of her talent in his widely circulated paper. She had been associated in Paris with the whole coterie of artists and actors, every one of them Republican to a man. But in London, although one might be snubbed by the emigres and aristocrats, it did not do to be mixed up with the Sankulot journalists and pamphleteers who haunted the socialistic clubs of the English capital, and who were the prime organisers of all those seditious gatherings and reasonable unions that caused Mr. Pitt and his colleagues so much trouble and anxiety. One by one, Desiree Candet's comrades, male and female, who had accompanied her to England, returned to their own country. When war was declared, some of them were actually sent back under the provisions of the Aliens' Bill. But Desiree had stayed on. Her old friends in Paris had managed to advise her that she would not be very welcome there just now. The Sankulot journalists of England, the agents and spies of the revolutionary government, had taken their revenge of the frequent snubs inflicted upon them by the young actress, and in those days the fact of being unwelcome in France was apt to have a more lurid and more dangerous significance. Candet did not dare return, at any rate not for the present. She trusted to her own powers of intrigue and her well-known fascinations to reconquer the friendship of the Jacobin clique, and she once more turned her attention to the affiliated socialistic clubs of England. But between the proverbial two stools de Moisele Candet soon came to the ground. Her machinations became known in official quarters, her connection with all the seditious clubs of London was soon brooded abroad, and one evening Desiree found herself confronted with a document addressed to her. On the office of His Majesty's privy seal, wherein it was said four-third, pursuant to the statute thirty-three, George third, cap five, she Desiree Candet, a French subject now resident in England, was required to leave this kingdom by order of His Majesty within seven days, and that in the event of the said Desiree Candet refusing to comply with this order she would be liable to commitment, brought to trial, and sentenced to imprisonment for a month, and afterwards to removal within a limited time under pain of transportation for life. This meant that de Moisele Candet had exactly seven days in which to make complete her reconciliation with her former friends, who now ruled Paris and France with a relentless and perpetually bloodstained hand. No wonder that during the night which followed the receipt of this momentous document, de Moisele Candet suffered gravely from insomnia. She dared not go back to France. She was ordered out of England. What was to become of her? This was just three days before the eventful afternoon of the Richmond gala, and twenty-four hours after Ex-Ambassador Chauvelin had landed in England. Candet and Chauvelin had since then met at the Cercle des Jacobins Français in Soho Street, and now Fred Desiree found herself in lodging's enrichment, the evening of the day following the gala, feeling that her luck had not altogether deserted her. One conversation with citizen Chauvelin had brought the fickle jade back to de Moisele Candet's service. Nay, more, the young actress saw before her visions of intrigue, of dramatic situations, of pleasant little bits of revenge, all of which was meat and drink and air to breathe for de Moisele Desiree. She was to sing in one of the most fashionable salons in England. That was very pleasant. The Prince of Wales would hear and see her. That opened out a vista of delightful possibilities, and all she had to do was to act a part dictated to her by citizen Chauvelin, to behave as he directed, to move in the way he wished. Well, that was easy enough, since the part which she would have to play was one peculiarly suited to her talents. She looked at herself critically in the glass. Her maid Finchon, a little French wave picked up in the slums of Soho, helped to readjust a stray curl which had rebelled against the comb. Now for the necklace, mademoiselle, said Finchon with suppressed excitement. It had just arrived by messenger, a large Morocco case which now lay open on the dressing-table, displaying its dazzling contents. Candet scarcely dared to touch it, and yet it was for her. Citizen Chauvelin had sent a note with it. Citizen Esconday would please accept this gift from the Government of France in acknowledgment of useful services past and to come. The note was sighed with Robespierre's own name, followed by that of Citizen Chauvelin. The Morocco case contained a necklace of diamonds, worth the ransom of a king. For useful services past and to come, and there were promises of still further rewards, a complete pardon for all defaultations, a place within the charmed circle of the Comédie Francaise, a grand pageant and apotheosis with Citizen Esconday impersonating the goddess of reason in the midst of a grand national fate, and the acclamations of excited Paris, and all in exchange for the enactment of a part, simple and easy, outlined for her by Chauvelin. How strange! How inexplicable! Candet took the necklace up in her trembling fingers and gazed musingly at the priceless gems. She had seen the jewels before, long, long ago, round the neck of the Duchess de Marnie, in whose service her own mother had been. She as a child had often gazed at and admired the great lady, who seemed like a wonderful fairy from an altogether different world, to the poor little kitchen slut. How wonderful are the vagaries of fortune! Desiré Candet, the kitchen maid's daughter, now wearing her ex-mistress's jewels. She's opposed that these had been confiscated when the last of the ladies—the girl, Juliet, had escaped from France—confiscated and now sent to her, Candet, as a reward or as a bribe. In either case, they were welcome. The actress's vanity was soothed. She knew Juliet Marnie was in England, and that she would meet her to-night at Lady Blakeneys. After the many snubs which she had endured from French aristocrats settled in England, the actress felt that she was about to enjoy an evening of triumph. The intrigue excited her. She did not quite know what schemes Chauvelin was aiming at, what ultimate end he had had in view when he commanded her services and taught her the part which he wished her to play. That the schemes were vast and the end mighty she could not doubt. The reward she had received was proof enough of that. Little Fanchon stood there in speechless admiration whilst her mistress still fondly fingered the magnificent necklace. Mademoiselle will wear the diamond to-night? She asked, with evident anxiety. She would have been bitterly disappointed to have seen the beautiful thing once more relegated to its dark Morocco case. Oh, yes, Fanchon, said Candet, with a sigh of great satisfaction. See that they are fastened quite securely, my girl. She put the necklace round her shapely neck, and Fanchon looked to see that the clasp was quite secure. There came the sound of loud knocking at the street door. That is, M. Chauvelin come to fetch me with the shays. Am I quite ready, Fanchon? asked Desirée Candet. Oh, yes, Mademoiselle, sighed the little maid, and Mademoiselle looks very beautiful to-night. Lady Blakeney is very beautiful to Fanchon, rejoined the actress naively, but I wonder if she will wear anything as fine as the Marnie necklace. The knocking at the street door was repeated. Candet took a final satisfied survey of herself in the glass. She knew her part, and felt that she had dressed well for it. She gave a final affectionate little tap to the diamonds around her neck, took her cloak and hood from Fanchon, and was ready to go. CHAPTER X There are several accounts extant, in the fashionable chronicles of the time, of the gorgeous reception given that autumn by Lady Blakeney in her magnificent riverside home. Never had the spacious apartments of Blakeney Manor looked more resplendent than on this memorable occasion—memorable because of the events which brought the brilliant evening to a close. The Prince of Wales had come over by water from Carlton House. The royal princesses came early, and all fashionable London was there, chattering and laughing, displaying elaborate gowns and priceless jewels, dancing, flirting, listening to the strains of the string band, or strolling listlessly in the gardens, where the late roses and clumps of heliotrope threw soft fragrance on the balmy air. But Marguerite was nervous and agitated. Strive how she might, she could not throw off that foreboding of something evil to come, which had assailed her from the first moment when she met Chauvelin face to face. That unaccountable feeling of unreality was still upon her. That sense that she, and the woman Candet, Percy, and even his royal highness were for the time being, the actors in a play written and stage-managed by Chauvelin. The ex-ambassadors' humility, his offers of friendship, his quietude under Percy's good-humoured banter—everything was a sham. Marguerite knew it. Her womanly instinct, her passionate love, all cried out to her in mourning. But there was that in our husband's nature which rendered her powerless in the face of such dangers as, she felt sure, were now threatening him. Just before her guests had begun to assemble, she had been alone with him for a few minutes. She had entered the room in which he sat, looking radiantly beautiful in a shimmering gown of white and silver, with diamonds in her golden hair and round her exquisite neck. Moments like this, when she was alone with him, were the joy of her life. Then and only then did she see him as he really was, with that wistful tenderness in his deep-set eyes, that occasional flash of passion from beneath the lazily drooping lids. For a few minutes, seconds may have, the spirit of the reckless adventurer was laid to rest, relegated into the furthermost background of his senses by the powerful emotions of the lover. Then he would seize her in his arms and hold her to him, with a strange longing to tear from out his heart all other thoughts, feelings, and passions, save those which made him a slave to her beauty and her smiles. Percy! she whispered to him to-night, when freeing herself from his embrace, she looked up at him, and for this one heavenly second felt him all her own. Percy! You will do nothing rash, nothing foolhardy to-night. That man had planned all that took place yesterday. He hates you, and in a moment his face and attitude had changed. The heavy lids drooped over the eyes, the rigidity of the mouth relaxed, and that quaint, half-shy, half-annane smile played around the firm lips. Of course he does, my dear. He said in his usual affected, drawly tones. Of course he does. But that is so damned amusing. He does not really know what or how much he knows, or what I know. In fact, uh, we none of us know anything, just at present. He laughed, lightly and carelessly, then deliberately readjusted the set of his lace tie. Percy! she said reproachfully. Yes, my dear. Lately, when you brought Derroulier than Juliet Marney to England, I endured agonies of anxiety, and— He sighed. A quick, short, wistful sigh, and said very gently, I know you did, my dear. And that is where the trouble lies. I know that you are fretting. So I have to be so damned quick about the business, so as not to keep you in suspense too long. And now I can't take folks away from his young wife, and Tony and the others are so mighty slow. Percy! she said once more with earnest tenderness. I know, I know, he said, with a slight frown of self-approach. Ah! But I don't deserve your solicitude. Heavens know what a brute I was for years, whilst I neglected you, and ignored the noble devotion, which I, alas, do even now so little to deserve. She would have said something more, but was interrupted by the entrance of Juliet Marney into the room. Some of your guests have arrived, Lady Blakeney, said the young girl, apologizing for her seeming intrusion. I thought you would wish to know. Juliet looked very young and girlish, in a simple white gown, without a single jewel on her arms or neck. Marguerite regarded her with unaffected approval. You look charming to-night, Mademoiselle. Does she not, so Percy? Thanks to your bounty, smiled Juliet, a trifle, sadly, whilst I dressed to-night, I felt how I should have loved to wear my mother's jewels, of which she used to be so proud. We must hope that you will recover them, dear, some day, said Marguerite vaguely, as she led the young girl out of the small study towards the larger reception rooms. Indeed, I hope so, sighed Juliet. When times became so troublesome in France, after my dear father's death, his confessor and friend, Diabe Fruquet, took charge of all my mother's jewels for me. He said they would be safe with the ornaments of his own little church at Boulogne. He feared no sacrilege, and thought they would be most effectually hidden there, for no one would dream of looking for the margne diamonds in the crypt of a country church. Marguerite said nothing in reply. Whatever her own doubts might be upon such a subject, it could serve no purpose to disturb the young girl's serenity. Diabe Fruquet, said Juliet, after a while, he insists the kind of devotion which I feel sure will never be found under the new regimes of anarchy and of so-called equality. He would have laid down his life for my father or for me, and I know that he would never part with the jewels which I entrusted to his care, whilst he had breath and strength to defend them. Marguerite would have wished to pursue the subject a little further. She was very pathetic to witness poor Juliet's hopes and confidences, which she felt sure would never be realized. Lady Blakeney knew so much of what was going on in France just now—spoliation, confiscations, official thefts, open robberies—all in the name of equality, of fraternity, and of patriotism. She knew nothing, of course, of Diabe Fruquet, but the tender little picture of the devoted old man, painted by Juliet's words, had appealed strongly to her sympathetic heart. Recent and knowledge of the political aspect of France told her that by entrusting valuable family jewels to the old Abbe, Juliet had most unwittingly placed the man she so much trusted in danger of persecution at the hands of a government, which did not even admit the legality of family possessions. However, there was neither time nor opportunity now to enlarge upon the subject. Marguerite resolved to recur to it a little later, when she would be alone with mademoiselle de Marnie, and above all when she could take counsel with her husband as to the best means of recovering the young girl's property for her, whilst relieving a devoted old man from the dangerous responsibility which she had so selflessly undertaken. In the meanwhile, the two women had reached the first of the long line of state apartments wherein the brilliant fate was to take place. The staircase and the hall below were already filled with the early arrivals. Bidding Juliet to remain in the ballroom, Lady Blapney now took up her stand on the exquisitely decorated landing, ready to greet her guests. She had a smile and a pleasant word for all, as, in a constant stream, the elite of London fashionable society began to file pasta, exchanging the elaborate greetings which the stilted mode of the day prescribed to this butterfly world. The lackeys in the hall shouted the names of the guests as they passed up the stairs. Names celebrated in politics, in worlds of sport, of science, or of art, great historic names, humble, newly made ones, noble, illustrious titles. The spacious rooms were filling fast. His royal highness, so to say, had just stepped out of his barge. The noise of laughter and chatter was incessant, like unto a crowd of gaily plumaged birds. Huge bunches of apricot-coloured roses and silver vases made the air heavy with their subtle perfume. Fans began to flutter. The string band struck the preliminary chords of the gavotte. At that moment the lackeys at the foot of the stairs called out instantorian tones, Mademoiselle desirait Candet, and Monsieur Chauvelin. Margret's heart gave a slight flutter. She felt a sudden tightening of her throat. She did not see Candet at first. Only the slight figure of Chauvelin dressed all in black, as usual, with head bent and hands clasped behind his back. He was slowly mounting the wide staircase, between a double row of brilliantly attired men and women, who looked with no small measure of curiosity at the ex-ambassador from Revolutionary France. Demoiselle Candet was leading the way up the stairs. She paused on the landing in order to make before her hostess a most perfect and most elaborate curtsy. She looked smiling and radiant, beautifully dressed, a small wreath of wrought gold leaves in her hair, her only jewel and absolutely regal one, a magnificent necklace of diamonds round her shapely throat.