CHAPTER IX What love can do. Yesterday you were unkind and ungulant. How could I smile when you seemed so stern? Yesterday I was not alone with you. How could I say what lay next to my heart when indifferent ears could catch the words that were meant only for you? Ah, monsieur, do they teach you in England how to make pretty speeches? No, mademoiselle. That is an instinct that comes into birth by the fire of a woman's eyes.  Armand felt that she looked like that carved cameo which his sister Marguerite possessed. He himself sat on a low chair at some distance from her. He had brought her a large bunch of early violets, for he knew that she was fond of flowers, and these lay upon her lap against the opalescent grey of her gown.  The room itself appeared to Armand to be a perfect frame for the charming picture which she presented.  Mademoiselle Lange, who was an orphan, lived alone under the duennorship of a middle-aged relative, a penniless hangaron of the successful young actress, who acted as her chaperone, housekeeper, and maid, and kept unseemly or over-bold gallons at bayne. She told Armand all about her early life, her childhood in the back-shop of Maître Mésière, the jeweler, who was a relative of her mother's, of her desire for an artistic career, her struggles with the middle-class prejudices of her relations, her bold defiance of them, and final independence. She made no secret of her humble origin, her want of education in those days. On the contrary, she was proud of what she had accomplished for herself. She was only twenty years of age and already held a leading place in the artistic world of Paris. Armand listened to her chatter, interested in everything she said, questioning her with sympathy and discretion. She asked him a good deal about himself and about his beautiful sister Marguerite, who, of course, had been the most brilliant star in that most brilliant constellation, the Comédie Francaise. She had never seen Marguerite Sarchoust act, but of course, Paris still rang with her praises, and all art-lovers regretted that she should have married and left them to mourn for her. Thus the conversation drifted naturally back to England. Mademoiselle professed a vast interest in the citizen's country of adoption. I had always, she said, thought it an ugly country, with the noise and bustle of industrial life going on everywhere, and smoke and fog to cover the landscape and to stunt the trees. Then in future, Mademoiselle, he replied, must you think of it as one carpeted with verdure, wherein the spring-the-orchard trees covered with delicate blossom would speak to you of fairyland, where the dewy grass stretches its velvety surface in the shadow of ancient monumental oaks, and ivy-covered towers rear their stately crowns to the sky. And the Scarlet Pimpanelle? Tell me about him, monsieur. Ah, Mademoiselle, what can I tell you that you do not already know? The Scarlet Pimpanelle is a man who has devoted his entire existence to the benefit of suffering mankind. He has but one thought, and that is for those who need him. He hears but one sound, the cry of the oppressed. But they do say, monsieur, that philanthropy plays but a sorry part in your hero's schemes. They aver that he looks on his own efforts and the adventures through which he goes, only in the light of sport. Like all Englishmen, Mademoiselle, the Scarlet Pimpanelle is a little ashamed of sentiment. He would deny its very existence with his lips, even whilst his noble heart brimmed over with it. Sport? Well, may have the sporting instinct is as keen as that of charity. The race for lives, the tussle for the rescue of human creatures, the throwing of a life on the hazard of a die. They fear him in France, monsieur. He has saved so many whose death had been decreed by the Committee of Public Safety. Please, God, he will save many yet. Ah, monsieur! The poor little boy in the temple prison! He has your sympathy, mademoiselle? Of every right-winded woman in France, monsieur? Oh! she added, with a pretty gesture of enthusiasm, clasping her hands together and looking at our mound with large eyes filled with tears. If your noble Scarlet Pimpanelle would do ought to save that poor innocent lamb, I would indeed bless him in my heart, and help him with all my humble might if I could. May God's saints bless you for those words, mademoiselle, he said, whilst carried away by her beauty, her charm, her perfect femininity, he stooped towards her until his knee touched the carpet at her feet. I had begun to lose my belief in my poor misguided country, to think all men in France vile and all women base. I could thank you on my knees for your sweet words of sympathy, for the expression of tender motherliness that came into your eyes when you spoke of the poor forsaken dauphan in the temple. She did not restrain her tears.   The other, she had almost unconsciously yielded to Armand. The scent of the violets filled the room. It seemed to emanate from her, a fitting attribute of her young, wholly unsophisticated girlhood. The citizen was goodly to look at. He was kneeling at her feet, and his lips were pressed against her hand. Armand was young, and he was an idealist. I do not for a moment imagine that just at this moment he was deeply in love. The stronger feeling had not yet risen up in him. It came later, when tragedy encompassed him, and brought passion to sudden maturity. Just now he was merely yielding himself up to the intoxicating moment, with all the abandonment, all the enthusiasm of the Latin race. There was no reason why he should not bend the knee before this exquisite little cameo, that by its very presence was giving him an hour of perfect pleasure and of aesthetic joy. Outside the world continued its hideous, relentless way. Men butchered one another, fought and hated. Here, in this small, old world salon, with its faded satins and bits of ivory-tinted lace, the outer universe had never really penetrated. It was a tiny world, quite apart from the rest of mankind, perfectly peaceful and absolutely beautiful. If Armand had been allowed to depart from here now, without having been the cause as well as the chief actor in the events that followed, no doubt that Mademoiselle Lant would always have remained a charming memory with him. An exquisite bouquet of violets pressed reverently between the leaves of a favourite book of poems, and the scent of spring flowers would in after years have ever brought her dainty picture to his mind. He was murmuring pretty words of endearment, carried away by emotion, his arm stole round her waist. He felt that if another tear came like a dew-drop rolling down her cheek, he must kiss it away at its very source. Passion was not sweeping them off their feet, not yet, for they were very young, and life had not as yet presented to them its most unsolvable problem. But they yielded to one another, to the springtime of their life, calling for love, which would come presently hand in hand with its grim attendant sorrow. Even as Armand's glowing face was at last lifted up to hers, asking with mute lips for that first kiss which she already was prepared to give, there came the loud noise of men's heavy footsteps tramping up the old oak stairs, then some shouting, a woman's cry, and the next moment Madame Belom, trembling, wide-eyed and in obvious terror, came rushing into the room. Jean! Jean, my child, it is awful, it is awful! Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, what is to become of us! She was moaning and lamenting even as she ran in, and now she threw her apron over her face and sank into a chair, continuing her moaning and her lamentations. Neither Mademoiselle nor Armand had stirred. They remained like graven images. He on one knee, she with large eyes fixed upon his face. They had neither of them looked on the old woman. They seemed even now unconscious of her present. But their ears had caught the sound of that measured tramp of feet up the stairs of the old house, and the halt upon the landing. They had heard the brief words of command, Open in the name of the people! They knew quite well what it all meant. They had not wandered so far in the realms of romance, of reality, the grim, horrible reality of the moment, had not the power to bring them back to earth. That peremptory call to open in the name of the people was the prologue these days to a drama which had but two concluding acts—a rest, which was a certainty, the guillotine, which was more than probable. Jean and Armand, these two young people who, but a moment ago, had tentatively lifted the veil of life, looked straight into each other's eyes and saw the hand of death interposed between them. They looked straight into each other's eyes and knew that nothing but the hand of death would part them now. Love had come with its attendant sorrow, but he had come with no uncertain footsteps.  "'Aunt Marie!' it was Jean Lange who spoke, but her voice was no longer that of an irresponsible child. It was firm, steady, and hard. Though she spoke to the old woman, she did not look at her. Her luminous brown eyes rested on the bowed head of Armand Saint-Just. "'Aunt Marie!' she repeated more peremptorily, for the old woman, with her apron over her head, was still moaning, and unconscious of all, save an overmastering fear. "'Open in the name of the people!' came an allowed, harsh voice once more from the other side of the front door. "'Aunt Marie, as you value your life and mind, pull yourself together,' said Jean firmly. "'What shall we do? Oh, what shall we do?' moaned Madame Bellum. But she had dragged the apron away from her face, and was looking with some puzzlement at meek, gentle little Jean, who had suddenly become so strange, so dictatorial, all unlike her habitual, somewhat diffident self. "'You need not have the slightest fear, Aunt Marie, if you will only do as I tell you,' resumed Jean quietly. "'If you give way to fear, we are all of us undone. As you value your life and mind,' she now repeated authoritatively, "'pull yourself together and do as I tell you.'" The girl's firmness, her perfect quietude, had the desired effect. Madame Bellum, though still shaken up with sobs of terror, made a great effort to master herself. She stood up, smoothed down her apron, passed her hand over her ruffled hair, and said in a quaking voice, "'What do you think we had better do?' Go quietly to the door and open it. But the soldiers, if you do not open quietly, they will force the door open within the next two minutes,' interposed Jean calmly. "'Go quietly and open the door. Try and hide your fears, grumble in an audible voice at being interrupted in your cooking, and tell the soldiers at once that they will find mademoiselle in the boudoir. "'Oh, for God's sake,' she added, whilst suppressed emotions suddenly made her young voice vibrate, "'Go before they break open the door!' Madame Bellum, impressed and cowed, obeyed like an automaton. She turned and marched fairly straight out of the room. It was not a minute too soon. From outside had already come the third and final summons. Open, in the name of the people!' After that, a crow-bar would open the door. Madame Bellum's heavy footsteps were heard crossing the antechamber. Armand still knelt at Jean's feet, holding her trembling little hand in his. "'A love-scene,' she whispered rapidly. "'A love-scene! Quick, do you know one?' And even as he had tried to rise, she held him back, down on his knees. He thought that fear was making her distracted. "'Mademoiselle,' he murmured, trying to soothe her. "'Try and understand,' she said with wonderful calm, and do as I tell you. Aunt Marie has obeyed. Will you do likewise?' "'To the death,' he whispered eagerly. "'Then a love-scene,' she entreated. "'Surely, you know one. Roderique and Chimaine. Surely, surely,' she urged, even as tears of anguish rose into her eyes. "'You must! You must, or if not that something else. Quick! The very seconds are precious!' They were indeed. Madame Bellum, obedient as a frightened dog, had gone to the door and opened it. Even her well-famed grumblings could now be heard and the rough interrogations from the soldiery. "'Citizen s'lage,' said a rough voice, in her boudoir, quoi.' Madame Bellum, braced up apparently by fear, was playing her part remarkably well. Bothering good citizens, on baking-day, too, she went on grumbling and muttering. "'Oh, think, think!' murmured Jean now in an agonised whisper, her hot little hand grasping his so tightly that her nails were driven into his flesh. "'You must know something that will do anything for dear life's sake, amande!' His name, in the tense excitement of this terrible moment, had escaped her lips. All in a flash of sudden intuition, he understood what she wanted, and even as the door of the boudoir was thrown violently open, amande, still on his knees, but with one hand pressed to his heart, the other stretched upwards to the ceiling, in the most approved dramatic style, was loudly declaiming, Burvanger son honneur, il perdit son amour, Burvanger sa maîtresse, il a quitté le jour, whereupon mademoiselle Lange feigned the most perfect impatience. "'No, no, my good cousin,' she said with a pretty move, disdain, "'that will never do. You must not thus emphasise the end of every line. The verses should flow more evenly as thus,' Heron had paused at the door. It was he who had thrown it open. He who, followed by a couple of his sleuth-hounds, had thought to find here the man denounced by debats as being one of the followers of that irrepressible scarlet pimpenel. The obviously Parisian intonation of the man kneeling in front of Citizeness Lange in an attitude no way suggestive of personal admiration, and coolly reciting verses out of a play, had somewhat taken him aback. "'What does this mean?' he asked, gruffly, striding forward into the room and glaring first at mademoiselle, then at amande. Mademoiselle gave a little cry of surprise. "'Why, if it isn't Citizen Heron,' she cried, jumping up with a dainty movement of coquetry and embarrassment. "'Why did not Aunt Marie announce you? It is indeed remiss of her, but she is so ill-tempered on baking-days, I dare not even rebuke her.   The fibrillness of her manner, the glow in her cheeks, were easily attributable to natural shyness in the face of this unexpected visit. Heron, completely bewildered by this little scene, which was so unlike what he expected, and so unlike those to which he was accustomed in the exercise of his horrible duties, was practically speechless before the little lady who continued to prattle along in a simple, unaffected manner. "'Cousin,' she said to Amande, who in the meanwhile had risen to his knees, "'This is Citizen Heron, of whom you have heard me speak. My cousin bel-homme,' she continued, once more turning to Heron, "'is fresh from the country, Citizen. He hails from Orléans, where he has played leading parts in the tragedies of the late Citizen Cornet. And ah, me! I fear that he will find Paris audiences vastly more critical than the good Orléanes. Did you hear him, Citizen, claiming those beautiful verses just now? He was murdering them, say I. Yes, murdering them, the Gabby. Then only did it seem as if she realized that there was something amiss, that Citizen Heron had come to visit her, not as an admirer of her talent, who would wish to pay his respects to a successful actress, but as a person to be looked on with dread. She gave a quaint, nervous little laugh, and murmured in the tones of a frightened child, "'Lar Citizen, how glum you look! I thought you had come to compliment me on my latest success. I saw you at the theatre last night, though you did not afterwards come to see me in the green room. Why, I had a regular ovation. Look at my flowers,' she added more gaily, pointing to several bouquets and vases about the room. Citizen Danton brought me the violets himself, and Citizen Sainte-Eure than Ossisi. And that laurel wreath, he said not charming. That was a tribute from Citizen Robespierre himself. She was so artless, so simple, and so natural, that Heron was completely taken off his usual mental balance. He had expected to find the usual setting to the dramatic episodes which he was want to conduct, screaming women, a man either at bay, sword in hand, or hiding in a linen cupboard or up a chimney. Now everything puzzled him. Debats, he was quite sure, had spoken of an Englishman, a follower of the Scarlet Pimpanel. Every thinking French patriot knew that all the followers of the Scarlet Pimpanel were Englishmen with red hair and prominent teeth, whereas this man, Amand, who deadly danger had primed in his improvised role, was striding up and down the room, declaiming with ever-varying intonations, joignait tout vos efforts contre un espoir si doux pour en venir à vous, c'est trop peu que de vous." No, no, said Mademoiselle impatiently, you must not make that ugly pause midway in the last line, pour en venir à vous, c'est trop peu que de vous. She mimicked Amand's diction so quaintly, imitating his stride, his awkward gesture, and his faulty phraseology, with such funny exaggeration that Heron laughed in spite of himself. So that is a cousin from Orléans, is it? He asked, throwing his lanky body into an armchair which creaked dismally under his weight. Yes, a regular gabis, what? She said archly. Now, citizen Heron, you must stay and take coffee with me, Aunt Marie will be bringing it in directly. Hector, she added, turning to Amand, come down from the clouds and ask Aunt Marie to be quick. This was certainly the first time in the whole of his experience that Heron had been asked to stay and drink coffee with the quarry he was hunting down. Mademoiselle's innocent little ways, her desires for the prolongation of his visit, further addled his brain. Debats had undoubtedly spoken of an Englishman, and the cousin from Orléans was certainly a Frenchman, every inch of him. Perhaps had the denunciation come from anyone else but debats, Heron might have acted in thought more circumspectly, but of course the chief agent of the committee of general security was more suspicious of the man from whom he took a heavy bribe than of anyone else in France. The thought had suddenly crossed his mind that may have debats had sent him on a fool's errand in order to get him safely out of the way of the temple prison at a given hour of the day. The thought took shape, crystallized, caused him to see a rapid vision of debats sneaking into his lodgings and stealing his keys, the guard being slack, careless, inattentive, allowing the adventurer to pass barriers that should have been closed against all comers. Now Heron was sure of it. It was all a conspiracy invented by debats. He had forgotten all about his theories that a man under arrest is always safer than a man that is free. Had his brain been quite normal and not obsessed, as it always was now by thoughts of the dauphins' escape from prison, no doubt he would have been more suspicious of Armand. But all his worst suspicions were directed against debats. Armand seemed to him just a fool, an actaqua, and so obviously not an Englishman. This feat, curtly declining Mademoiselle's offers of hospitality, he wanted to get away at once. Actors and actresses were always by tacit consent of the authorities, more immune than the rest of the community. They provided the only amusement in the intervals of the horrible scenes around the scaffolds. They were irresponsible, harmless creatures who did not meddle in politics. Jean the Wilde was gaily prattling on, her luminous eyes fixed upon the all-powerful enemy, striving to read his thoughts, to understand what went on behind those cruel, prominent eyes. The chances that Armand had of safety and of life. She knew, of course, that the visit was directed against Armand. Someone had betrayed him, that odious debats may happen, and she was fighting for Armand's safety for his life. Her armory consisted of her presence of mind, her cool courage, her self-control. She used all these weapons for his sake, though at times she felt as if the strain on her nerves would snap the thread of life in her. The effort seemed more than she could bear. But she kept up her part, rallying Heron for the shortness of his visit, begging him to tarry another five minutes at least, throwing out, with subtle feminine intuition, just those very hints in and little Capay's safety that were most calculated to send him flying back towards the temple. I felt so honoured last night, citizen," she said coquettishly, that you even forgot little Capay in order to come and watch my debut as Sely Men. Forget him," retorted Heron, smothering a curse. I never forget the vermin. I must go back to him. There are too many cats nosing about my house. Good day to you, citizeness. I ought to have brought flowers, I know, but I am a busy man, a harassed man. Je decrois," she said with a grave nod of the head, but do come to the theatre to-night. I am playing Camille, such a fine part, one of my greatest successes." Yes, yes. I'll come, may-hap, may-hap. But I'll go now. Glad to have seen you, citizeness. Where does your cousin lodge?" he asked abruptly. Here," she replied boldly, on the spur of the moment. Good! Let him report himself to-morrow morning at the Gonsière-Johi, and get his certificate of safety. It is a new decree, and you should have one, too." Very well, then. Hector and I will come together, and perhaps Aunt Marie will come, too. Don't send us to Mamar-Guillotine yet a wild citizen," she said lightly. You will never get such another Camille, nor yet so good a celliment. She was gay, artless to the last. She accompanied Heron to the door herself, chaffing him about his escort. You are an arrestor, citizen," she said, gazing with well-famed admiration on the two sleuth hounds who stood and waited in the anti-room. It makes me proud to see so many citizens at my door. Come and see me play Camille. Come to-night, and don't forget the green-room door. It will always be kept invitingly open for you." She bobbed him a curtsy, and he walked out, closely followed by his two men. Then at last she closed the door behind them. She stood there for a while, her ear glued against the massive panels, listening for their measured tread down the oak staircase. At last it rang more sharply against the flagstones of the courtyard below. Then she was satisfied that they had gone, and went slowly back to the boudoir. CHAPTER 10 SHadows The tension on her nerves relaxed. There was the inevitable reaction. Her knees were shaking under her, and she literally staggered into the room. But Armand was already near her, down on both his knees this time, his arms clasping the delicate form that swayed like the slender stems of Narcissi and the breeze. Oh! You must go out of Paris at once, at once!" She said through sobs which no longer would be kept back. He'll return. I know that he will return, and you will not be safe until you are back in England. But he could not think of himself or of anything in the future. He had forgotten Heron, Paris, the world. He could think only of her. I owe my life to you, he murmured. Oh! How beautiful you are! How brave! How I love you!" It seemed that he had always loved her. From the moment that first in his boyish heart he had set up an ideal to worship, and then, last night, in the box of a theatre, he had his back turned toward the stage, and was ready to go. Her voice had called him back. It had held him spellbound, her voice, and also her eyes. He did not know then that it was love which then and there had enchained him.   He babbled along incoherently, in the intervals of covering her hands and the hem of her gown with kisses. He stooped right down to the ground and kissed the art of her instep. He had become a devotee worshiping at the shrine of his saint, who had performed a great and wonderful miracle. Armand the idealist had found his ideal in a woman. That was the great miracle which the woman herself had performed for him. He found in her all that he had admired most, all that he had admired in the leader who hitherto had been the only personification of his ideal. But Jean possessed all those qualities which had roused his enthusiasm in the noble hero whom he revered. Her pluck, her ingenuity, her calm devotion which had averted the threatened danger from him. What had he done that she should have risked her own sweet life for his sake? But Jean did not know. She could not tell. Her nerves were now somewhat unstrung, and the tears that always came so readily to her eyes flowed quite unchecked. She could not very well move, for he held her knees imprisoned in his arms. But she was quite content to remain like this, and to yield her hands to him, so that he might cover them with kisses. Indeed, she did not know at what precise moment love for him had been born in her heart. Last night perhaps. She could not say, but when they parted she felt that she must see him again. And then to-day, perhaps it was the scent of the violets. They were so exquisitely sweet. Perhaps it was his enthusiasm and his talk about England.  Thus these two children philosophised, trying to understand the mystery of the birth of love. But they were only children. They did not really understand. Hashen was sweeping them off their feet, because a common danger had bound them irrevocably to one another. The womanly instinct to save and to protect had given the young girl strength to bear a difficult part, and now she loved him for the dangers from which she had rescued him, and he loved her because she had risked her life for him. The hours sped on. There was so much to say, so much that was exquisite to listen to. The shades of evening were gathering fast. The room, with its pale-toned hangings and faded tapestries, was sinking into the arms of gloom. Aunt Marie was no doubt too terrified to stir out of her kitchen. She did not bring the lamps, but the darkness suited Armand's mood, and Jean was glad that the glooming effectually hid the perpetual blush in her cheeks. In the evening air the dying flowers sent their heady fragrance around. Armand was intoxicated with the perfume of violets that clung to Jean's fingers, with the touch of a satin gown that brushed his cheek, with the murmur of her voice that quivered through her tears.  In the tiny square outside a street-lamp had been lighted, and its feeble rays came peeping in through the lace curtains of the window. They caught the dainty silhouette of the young girl, playing with the loose tendrils of her hair around her forehead, and outlining a thin band of light to the contour of neck and shoulder, making the satin of her gown shimmer with an opalescent glow. Armand rose from his knees. Her eyes were calling to him. Her lips were ready to yield.  He kissed her hair, her eyes, her lips. Her skin was fragrant as the flowers of spring. The tears on her cheeks glistened like morning dew. Aunt Marie came in at last, carrying the lamp. She found them sitting side by side, like two children, hand in hand, mute with the eloquence which comes from boundless love. They were under a spell, forgetting even that they lived, knowing nothing except that they loved. The lamp broke the spell, and Aunt Marie's still trembling voice. "'Oh, my dear! How did you manage to rid yourself of those brutes?' But she asked no other question, even when the lamp showed up quite clearly the glowing cheeks of Jean and the ardent eyes of Armand. In her heart, long since Atrophied, there were a few memories, carefully put away in a secret cell, and those memories caused the old woman to understand. Neither Jean nor Armand noticed what she did. The spell had been broken, but the dream lingered on. They did not see Aunt Marie putting the room tidy, and then quietly tiptoeing out by the door. But through the dream, reality was struggling for recognition. After Armand had asked for the hundredth time, "'Do you mean him?' And Jean, for the hundredth time, had replied mutely with her eyes, her fears for him suddenly returned. Everything had awakened her from her trance. A heavy footstep may happen the street below, the distant roll of a drum, or only the clash of steel saucepans in Aunt Marie's kitchen. But suddenly Jean was alert, and with her alertness came terror for the beloved. "'Your life,' she said. For he had called her his life just then. Your life! And I was forgetting that it is still in danger. Your dear! Your precious life!' "'Dubbly dear now,' he replied, since I owe it to you.  Guard it well for my sake. Make all haste to leave Paris. Oh! This I beg of you,' she continued more earnestly, seeing the look of de Meurre in his eyes. Every hour you spend in it brings danger nearer to your door. I could not leave Paris while you are here. "'But I am safe here,' she urged. "'Quite, quite safe, I assure you. I am only a poor actress, and the government takes no heed of us mimes. One must be amused, even between the intervals of killing one another. Indeed, indeed, I should be far safer here now, waiting quietly for a while, while you make preparations to go. My hasty departure at this moment would bring disaster on us both.' There was logic in what she said. And yet how could he leave her, now that he had found this perfect woman, this realization of his highest ideals? How could he go and leave her in this awful Paris, with brutes like Heron forcing their hideous personality into her sacred presence, threatening that very life he would gladly give his own to give him violet? "'Listen, sweetheart,' he said after a while, when presently Wiesin struggled back for first place in his mind. "'Will you allow me to consult with my chief, with the Scarlet Pimpernel, who is in Paris at the present moment? I am under his orders. I could not leave France just now. My life, my entire person, are at his disposal. I and my comrades are here under his orders, for a great undertaking which he has not yet unfolded to us, but which I firmly believe is framed for the rescue of the Dove found from the temple.' She gave an involuntary exclamation of horror. "'No, no,' she said quickly and earnestly, as far as you are concerned, Armand, that has now become an impossibility. Someone has betrayed you, and you are henceforth a marked man. I think that odious debate had a hand in Heron's visit of this afternoon. We succeeded in putting these spies off the scent, but only for a moment. In a few hours—less, perhaps—Heron will repent him of his carelessness. He'll come back. I know that he will come back. He may leave me personally alone, but he will be on your track. He'll drag you to the conciergerie to report yourself, and there your true name and history are bound to come to light. If you succeed in invading him, he will still be on your track. If the Scarlet Pimpernel keeps you in Paris now, your death will be at his door.' Her voice had become quite hard and trenchant, as she said these last words. Unlike, she was already prepared to hate the man whose mysterious personality she had hitherto admired, now that the life and safety of Armand appeared to depend on the will of that elusive hero. You must not be afraid for me, Jean," he urged. The Scarlet Pimpernel cares for all his followers. He would never allow me to run unnecessary risks. She was unconvinced, almost jealous now of his enthusiasm for that unknown man. Already she had taken full possession of Armand. She had purchased his life, and he had given her his love. She would share neither treasure with that nameless leader who held our man's allegiance. It is only for a little while, sweetheart. He reiterated again and again. I could not any how leave Paris, whilst I feel that you are here, maybe in danger. The thought would be horrible. I should go mad if I had to leave you." Then he talked again of England, of his life there, of the happiness and peace that were in store for them both. We will go to England together, he whispered, and there we will be happy together, you and I. We will have a tiny house among the Kentish hills, and its walls will be covered with honeysuckle and roses. At the back of the house there will be an orchard, and in May, when the fruit blossom is fading and soft spring breezes blow among the trees, showers of sweet scented petals will envelop us as we walk along, falling on us like fragrant snow. You will come, sweetheart, will you not? If you still wish it, Armand," she murmured. Still wish it? He would gladly go to-morrow if she would come with him. But of course that could not be arranged. She had her contractor fulfilled the theatre. Then there would be her house and furniture to dispose of, and there was Aunt Marie. But of course Aunt Marie would come too. She thought that she could get away some time before the spring, and he swore that he could not leave Paris until she came with him. It seemed a terrible deadlock, for she could not bear to think of him alone in those awful Paris streets where she knew that spies would always be tracking him. She had no illusions as to the impression which she had made on Heron. She knew that it could only be a momentary one, and that Armand would henceforth be in daily, hourly danger. At last she promised him that she would take the advice of his chief. They would both be guided by what he said. Armand would confide in him to-night, and if it could be arranged she would hurry on her preparations, and may have be ready to join him in a week. In the meanwhile, that cruel man must not risk your dear life, she said. Remember Armand, your life belongs to me. Oh! I could hate him for the love you bear him." Sh! He said earnestly, dear heart, you must not speak like that of the man whom, next to your perfect self, I love most upon earth. You think of him more than of me. I shall scarce live until I know that you are safely out of Paris." Though it was horrible to part, yet it was best, perhaps, that he should go back to his lodgings now, in case Heron sent his spies back to her door, and since he meant to consult with his chief. She had a vague hope that if the mysterious hero was indeed the noble hearted man whom Armand represented him to be, surely he would take compassion on the anxiety of a sorrowing woman, and release the man she loved from bondage. This thought pleased her and gave her hope. She even urged Armand now to go. When may I see you to-morrow? he asked. But it will be so dangerous to meet, she argued. I must see you. I could not live through the day without seeing you. The theatre is the safest place. I could not wait till the evening. May I not come here? No, no. Heron's spies may be about. Where, then? She thought it over for a moment. At the stage-door of the theatre at one o'clock, she said at last, we shall have finished rehearsal. Slip into the guichet of the concierge. I will tell him to admit you, and send my dresser to meet you there. She will bring you along to my room, where we shall be undisturbed for at least half an hour." He had perforce to be content with that, though he would so much rather have seen her here again, where the faded tapestries and soft-toned hangings made such a perfect background for her delicate charm. He had every intention of confiding in Blakeney, and of asking his help for getting Jean out of Paris as quickly as may be. Thus, this perfect hour was passed. The most pure, the fullest of joy that these two young people were ever destined to know. Perhaps they felt within themselves the consciousness that their great love would rise anon to yet greater, fuller perfection when fate had crowded with its halo of sorrow. Perhaps, too, it was that consciousness that gave to their kisses now the solemnity of a last farewell. CHAPTER XI THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPANEL Aman never could say definitely afterwards whether he went when he left the square du Roule that evening. No doubt he wandered about the streets for some time in an absent, mechanical way, paying no heed to the passes by, none to the direction in which he was going.  He recalled every word she uttered, every gesture she made. He was a man in luck for the first time—holy, irremediably in love. I suppose that it was the pangs of hunger that first recalled him to himself. It was close on eight o'clock now, and he had fed on his imaginings first on anticipation, then on realization, and lastly on memory, during the best part of the day. Now he awoke from his daydream to find himself tired and hungry, but fortunately not very far from that quarter of Paris where food is easily obtainable. He was somewhere near the Madeleine, a quarter he knew well. Soon he saw in front of him a small eating-house which looked fairly clean and orderly. He pushed open its swing-door, and seeing an empty table in his occluded part of the room, he sat down and ordered some supper. The place made no impression upon his memory. He could not have told you an hour later where it was situated, who had served him, what he had eaten, or what other persons were present in the dining-room at the time that he himself entered it. Having eaten, however, he felt more like his normal self, more conscious of his actions. When he finally left the eating-house he realized, for instance, that it was very cold, a fact of which he had for the past few hours been totally unaware. The snow was falling in thin, close flakes, and a biting north-easterly wind was blowing those flakes into his face and down his collar. He wrapped his cloak tightly around him. It was a good step yet to Blakeney's lodgings, where he knew that he was expected. He struck quickly into the Rue Saint-Honoré, avoiding the great open places where the grim horrors of this magnificent city and revolt against civilization were displayed in all their grim nakedness. On the Place de la Révolution, the guillotine, on the Carousel, the open-air camps of workers under the lash of slave-drivers more cruel than the uncivilized roots of the Far West. And Armand had to think of Jean in the midst of all these horrors. She was still a petted actress today, but who could tell if on the morrow the terrible lore of the suspect would not reach her in order to drag her before a tribunal that knew no mercy, and whose soul justice was a condemnation. The young man hurried on. He was anxious to be among his own comrades, to hear his chief's pleasant voice, to feel assured that, by all the sacred laws of friendship, Jean Hensforth would become the special care of the scarlet pimpinelle and his li. Blakeney lodged in a small house situated on the Quai de l'École, at the back of Saint-Germain-Locsois. From Mouens he had a clear and uninterrupted view across the river, as far as the irregular block of buildings of a châtelet prison and the House of Justice. The same tower-clock that two centuries ago had told the signal for the massacre of the Huguenots was even now striking nine. The house slipped through the half-open Port-Cochet, crossed the narrow dark courtyard, and ran up two flights of winding stone stairs. At the top of these, a door on his right allowed a thin streak of light to filtrate between its two folds, an iron bell-handle hung beside it. Armand gave it a pull. Two minutes later he was amongst his friends. He heaved a great sigh of content and relief. The very atmosphere here seemed to be different. As far as the lodging itself was concerned, it was as bare, as devoid of comfort as those sort of places, so-called chandre-garnie, usually were in these days. The chairs looked rickety and uninviting. The sofa was of black horse-hair, the carpet was thread-bear, and in places in actual holes. But there was a certain something in the air which revealed, in the midst of all this squalor, the presence of a man of fastidious taste. To begin with, the place was spotlessly clean. The stove, highly polished, gave forth a pleasing warm glow, and whilst the window slightly open, allowed a modicum of fresh air to enter the room. In a rough earthen-wear jug on the table stood a large bunch of Christmas roses, and to the educated nostril the slight scent of perfumes that hovered in the air was doubly pleasing after the fetid air of the narrow streets. Sir Andrew Folks was there, also my Lord Tony, and Lord Hastings. They greeted Armand with whole-hearted cheeriness. Where is Blakeney? asked the young man as soon as he had shaken his friends by the hand. Present! came in loud, pleasant accents from the door of an inner room on the right. And there he stood under the lintel of the door, the man against whom was raised to the giant hand of an entire nation, the man for whose head the revolutionary government of France would gladly pay out all the savings of its treasury, the man whom human bloodhounds were tracking, hot on the scent, for whom the nets of a bitter revenge and relentless reprisals were constantly being spread. Was he unconscious of it? Or merely careless? His closest friend, Sir Andrew Folks, could not say. Certain it is that, as he now appeared before Armand, picturesque as ever in perfectly tailored clothes, with priceless lace at throat and wrists, his slender fingers holding an enameled snuff-box and a handkerchief of delicate cambrick, his whole personality that of a dandy rather than a man of action, it seemed impossible to connect him with the foolhardy escapes which had set one nation glowing with enthusiasm and another clamouring for revenge. But it was the magnetism that emanated from him that could not be denied. The light that now and then, swift as summer lightning, flashed out from the depths of the blue eyes, usually veiled by heavy, lazy lids. The sudden tightening of firm lips, the setting of the square jaw, which in a moment, but only for the space of a second, transformed the entire face and revealed the born leader of men. Just now there was none of that in the debonair, easygoing man of the world who advanced to meet his friend. Armand went quickly up to him, glad to grasp his hand, slightly troubled with remorse, no doubt, at the recollection of his adventure of the day. It almost seemed to him that from beneath his half-closed lids, Blakeney had shot a quick, inquiring glance upon him. The quick flash seemed to light up the young man's soul from within and to reveal it naked to his friend. It was all over in a moment, and Armand thought that may-happ his conscience had played him a trick. There was nothing apparent in him, of this he was sure, that could possibly divulge his secret just yet. I am rather late, I fear, he said. I wandered about the streets in the late afternoon and lost my way in the dark. I hope I have not kept you all waiting. They all pulled chairs closely round the fire, except Blakeney, who preferred to stand. He waited a while until they were all comfortably settled and all ready to listen. And then—'It is about the Dauphin,' he said abruptly, without further preamble. They understood. All of them had guessed it, almost before the summons came that had brought them to Paris two days ago. Sir Andrew Folks had left his young wife because of that, and Armand had demanded it as a right to join hands in this noble work. Blakeney had not left France for over three months now. Backwards and forwards between Paris, or Nantes, or Orléans, to the coast where his friends would meet him to receive those unfortunates whom one man's wholehearted devotion had rescued from death. Backwards and forwards into the very hearts of those cities wherein an army of sleuthhounds were on his track, and the guillotine was stretching out her arms to catch the foolhardy adventurer. Now it was about the Dauphin.  They waited in silence, their eyes fixed on their leader, lest one single word from him should fail to reach their ears. The full magnetism of the man was apparent now. As he held these four men at this moment he could have held a crowd. The man of the world, the fastidious Dandy, had shed his mask. There stood the leader, calm, serene in the very face of the most deadly danger that had ever encompassed any man, looking that danger fully in the face, not striving to belittle it or to exaggerate it, but weighing it in the balance with what there was to accomplish. The rescue of a martyred, innocent child from the hands of fiends who were destroying his very soul even more completely than his body. Everything, I think, is prepared, resumed supercy after a slight pause. The seamal have been summarily dismissed. I learned that to-day. They removed from the temple on Sunday next, 19th. Obviously, that is the one day most likely to help us in our operations. As far as I am concerned, I cannot make any hard and fast plans. Chance at the last moment will have to dictate. But from every one of you I must have cooperation, and it can only be by your following my directions implicitly that we can even remotely hope to succeed. He crossed and recrossed the room once or twice before he spoke again, pausing now and again in his walk in front of a large map of Paris and its environs that hung upon the wall. His tall figure erect, his hands behind his back, his eyes fixed before him as if he saw right through the walls of his squalid room and across the darkness that overhung the city, through the grim bastions of the mighty building far away, where the descendant of an hundred kings lived at the mercy of human fiends who worked for his abasement. The man's face was now that of a seer and a visionary. The firm lines were set and rigid as those of an image carved in stone, the statue of heart-hold devotion, with the self-imposed task beckoning sternly to follow, there where lurked danger and death. The way, I think, in which we could best succeed would be this, he resumed after a while, sitting now on the edge of the table and directly facing his four friends. The light from the lamp which stood upon the table behind him fell full upon those four glowing faces fixed eagerly upon him, but he himself was in shadow, a massive silhouette broadly cut out against the light-colored map on the wall beyond. I remain here, of course, until Sunday, he said, and will closely watch my opportunity, when I can, with the greatest amount of safety, enter the temple building and take possession of the child. I shall, of course, choose the moment when the seamoes are actually on the move, with their successors probably coming in at about the same time. God alone knows, he added earnestly, how I shall contrive to get possession of the child. At the moment I am just as much in the dark about that as you are. He paused a moment, and suddenly his grave face seemed flooded with sunshine, a kind of lazy merriment danced in his eyes, effacing all trace of solemnity within them. La! he said lightly. On one point I am not at all in the dark, and that is that his majesty, King Louis XVII, will come out of that ugly house in my company, next Sunday, the nineteenth day of January, in this year of grace, seventeen hundred and ninety-four. And this, too, do I know, that those murderous blaggards shall not lay hands on me whilst that precious burden is in my keeping. So I pray you, my good Armand, do not look so glum." He added with his pleasant, merry laugh. You will need all your wits about you to help us in our undertaking. What do you wish me to do, Percy? said the young man, simply. In one moment I will tell you. I want you all to understand the situation first. The child will be out of the temple on Sunday. But at what hour I know not. For later it will be the better would it suit my purpose, for I cannot get him out of Paris before evening with any chance of safety. Here we must risk nothing. The child is far better off as he is now, than he would be if he were dragged back after an abortive attempt at rescue. But at this hour of the night, between nine and ten o'clock, I can arrange to get him out of Paris by the Viet gate.  Here are a few certificates of safety. I have been making a collection of them for some time, as they are always useful. He dived into the wide pocket of his coat, and drew forth a number of carts, greasy, much-fingered documents of the usual pattern which the Committee of General Security delivered to the free citizens of the new Republic, and without which no one could enter or leave any town or country commune, without being detained as suspect. He glanced at them and handed them over to folks. Choose your own identity for the occasion, my good friend, he said lightly, and you, too, Tony. You may be stone-masons or coal-carriers, chimneys, sweeps or farm-labourers. I care not which, so long as you look sufficiently grimy and wretched to be unrecognisable, and so long as you can procure a cart without arousing suspicions, and can wait for me punctually at the appointed spot. Folks turned over the carts, and with a laugh handed them over to Lord Tony. The two fastidious gentlemen discussed for a while the respective merits of a chimney-sweep's uniform as against that of a coal-carrier. You can carry more grime if you are a sweep, suggested Blakeney, and if the soot gets into your eyes it does not make them smart like coal does. But soot adheres more closely, argued Tony solemnly, and I know that we shan't get a bath for at least a week afterwards. Certainly you won't, you scimeride, asserted supercy with a laugh. After a week, soot might become permanent, newsed Sir Andrew, wondering what, under the circumstance, my lady would say to him. If you are both so fastidious, retorted Blakeney, shrugging his broad shoulders, I'll turn one of you into a reddleman, and the other into a dire. Then one of you will be bright scarlet to the end of his days, as the reddle never comes off the skin at all, and the other will have to soak in turpentine before the dye will consent to move. In either case—oh, my dear Tony, the smell! He laughed like a schoolboy in anticipation of a prank, and held his scented handkerchief to his nose. My Lord Hastings chuckled audibly, and Tony punched him for this unseemly display of mirth. Armand watched the little scene in utter amazement. He had been in England over a year, and yet he could not understand these Englishmen. Surely they were the queerest, most inconsequent people in the world. Here were these men, who were engaged at this very moment in an enterprise which, for cool-headed courage and foolhardy daring, had probably no parallel in history.  Vaguely he wondered what fat pompous debates would think of this discussion if he could overhear it. His contempt, no doubt, for the scarlet Pimpernel and his followers would be increased tenfold. Then at last the question of the disguise was effectually dismissed. Sir Andrew Folks and Lord Antony Dewhurst had settled their differences of opinion by solemnly agreeing to represent two overgrimy and overheated cold heavers. They chose two certificates of safety that were made out in the names of Jean Le Petit and Achille Gaspière, labourers. Though you don't look at all like an Achille, Tony, was Blakeney's parting shot to his friend. Then, without any transition from this schoolboy nonsense to the serious business of the moment, Sir Andrew Folks said abruptly, tell us exactly, Blakeney, where you will want the cart to stand on Sunday. Blakeney rose and turned to the map against the wall, Folks and Tony following him. They stood close to his elbow whilst his slender, nervy hand wandered along the shiny surface of the varnished paper. At last he placed his finger on one spot. Here you see, he said, is the Viet gate. Just outside it, a narrow street on the right leads down in the direction of the canal. It is just at the bottom of that narrow street at its junction with the tow-path there, that I want you two and the cart to be. It had better be a coal car, by the way. They will be unloading coal close by there to-morrow, he added, with one of his sudden, irrepressible outbursts of merriment. You and Tony can exercise your muscles coal-heaving, and incidentally make yourselves known in the neighbourhood as good, if somewhat grimy, patriots. We had better take up our parts at once, then, said Tony. I'll take a fond farewell of my clean shirt to-night. Yes, you will not see one again for some time, my good Tony. After your hard days work to-morrow, you will have to sleep either inside your cart, if you have already secured one, or under the arches of the canal bridge, if you have not. I hope you have an equally pleasant prospect for Hastings, was my Lord Tony's grim comment. It was easy to see that he was as happy as a schoolboy about to start for a holiday. Lord Tony was a true sportsman. Perhaps there was in him less sentiment for the heroic work which he did under the guidance of his chief, than an inherent passion for dangerous adventures. Sir Andrew Folks, on the other hand, fought perhaps a little less of the adventure, but a great deal of the martyred child in the temple. He was just as buoyant, just as keen as his friend, but the leaven of sentiment raised his sporting instincts to perhaps a higher plane of self-devotion. Well now to recapitulate, he said, in turn following with his finger the indicated route on the map, Tony and I and the coal-cart will await you on this spot, at the corner of the tow-path on Sunday evening at nine o'clock. And your signal, Blakeney? asked Tony. The usual one, replied Sir Percy. The seem-used cry thrives repeated at brief intervals. But now, he continued, turning to our mound and hastings, who were taken no part in the discussion hitherto. I want your help a little further afield. I thought so, not at hastings. The coal-cart, with its usual miserable nag, will carry us a distance of fifteen or sixteen kilometres, but no more. My purpose is to cut along the north of the city, and to reach St. Germain, the nearest point where we can secure good mounts. There is a farmer just outside the commune. His name is Achar. He has excellent horses, which I have borrowed before now. We shall want five, of course, and he has one powerful beast that will do for me, as I shall have in addition to my own weight, which is considerable, to take the child with me on the pillion. Now you, hastings, and our mound, will have to start early to-morrow morning. Leave Paris by the new gate, and from there make your way to St. Germain by any conveyance you can contrive to obtain. At St. Germain you must at once find Achar's farm, disguised as labourers you will not around suspicion by so doing. You will find the farmer quite amenable to money, and you must secure the best horses you can get for our own use, and, if possible, the powerful mound I spoke of just now. You are both excellent horsemen, therefore I selected you amongst the others for this special errand, for you, too, with the five horses, will have to come and meet our coal-cart some seventeen kilometres out of St. Germain, to where the first signpost indicates the road to Corboire. Some two hundred metres down this road on the right there is a small spinny, which will afford splendid shelter for yourselves and your horses. We hope to be there at about one o'clock after midnight of Monday morning. Now, is that all quite clear, and are you both satisfied? It is quite clear, exclaimed, hastings placidly, but I, for one, am not at all satisfied. And why not? Because it is all too easy. We get none of the danger. Oh! I thought that you would bring that argument forward, you incorrigible grumbler! laughed Sir Percy good-humidly. Let me tell you that if you start to murrow from Paris in that spirit, you will run your head and our mounds into a noose long before you reach the gate of New Year. I cannot allow either of you to cover your faces with too much crime. An honest farm labourer should not look over-dirty, and your chances of being discovered and detained are at the outset far greater than those which folks in Tony will run. Armand had said nothing during this time.  When Blakeney had asked if they were satisfied, he had taken no part in Hastings' protest, nor responded to his leader's good-humoured banter. Though he did not look up even now, yet he felt that Percy's eyes were fixed upon him, and they seemed to scorch into his soul. He made a great effort to appear eager like the others, and yet, from the first, a chill had struck at his heart. He could not leave Paris before he had seen Jean. He looked up suddenly, trying to seem unconcerned. He even looked his chief fully in the face. When ought we to leave Paris? he asked calmly. You must leave at daybreak, replied Blakeney, with a slight, almost imperceptible emphasis on the word of command. When the gates are first opened, and the work people go to and fro at their work, that is the safest hour, and you must be at Saint-Germain as soon as may be, or the farmer may not have as sufficiency of horses available at a moment's notice. I want you to be spokesman with Achaire, so that Hastings' British accent should not betray you both. Also, you might not get a conveyance for Saint-Germain immediately. We must think of every eventuality, Armand. There is so much at stake. Armand made no further comment just then, but the others looked astonished. Armand had but asked a simple question, and Blakeney's reply seemed almost like a rebuke, so circumstantial too, and so explanatory. He was so used to being obeyed at a word, so accustomed that, the merest wish, the slightest hint from him was understood by his band of devoted followers, that the long explanation of his orders which he gave to Armand struck them all with a strange sense of unpleasant surprise. Hastings was the first to break the spell that seemed to have fallen over the party. We leave at daybreak, of course, he said, as soon as the gates are open. We can, I know, get one of the carriers to give us a lift as far as Saint-Germain. There, how do we find Achar? He is a well-known farmer, replied Blakeney. You have but to ask. Good. Then we bespeak five horses for the next day, find lodgings in the village that night, and make a fresh start back towards Paris in the evening of Sunday. Is that right? Yes. One of you will have two horses on the lead, the other one. Pack some fodder on the empty saddles, and start at about ten o'clock. Ride straight along the main road, as if you were making back for Paris, until you come to four crossroads with a signpost pointing to Corbois. Turn down there and go along the road until you meet a close spinny of fir trees on your right. Make for the interior of that. It gives splendid shelter, and you can dismount there and give the horses a feed. We'll join you one hour after midnight. The night will be dark, I hope, and the moon anyhow will be on the wane. I think I understand. Anyhow, it's not difficult, and we'll be as careful as may be. You will have to keep your heads clear, both of you, concluded Blakeney. He was looking at Armand, as he said this, but the young man had not made a movement during this brief colloquy between Hastings and the Chief. He still sat, with his arms folded, his head falling on his breast. Silence had fallen on them all. They all sat round the fire, buried in thought. Through the open window there came from the key beyond the hum of life in the open-air camp, the tramp of the sentinels around it, the words of command from the drill sergeant, and through it all the moaning of the wind and the beating of the sleet against the window panes. A whole world of wretchedness was expressed by those sounds. Blakeney gave a quick, impatient sigh, and going to the window he pushed it further open. And just then there came from afar the muffled roll of drums, and from below the watchman's cry that seemed such dire mockery. Sleep, citizens! Everything is safe and peaceful. Sound advice, said Blakeney, lightly. Shall we also go to sleep? What say you all, eh? He had, with that sudden rapidity characteristic of his every action, already thrown off the serious air which he had worn a moment ago when giving instructions to Hastings. His usual debonair manner was on him once again—his laziness, his careless ensouciance. He was even at this moment deeply engaged in flicking off a grain of dust from the immaculate mechelin rough at his wrist. The heavy lids had fallen over the telltale eyes as if weighted with fatigue. The mouth appeared ready for the laugh which never was absent from it very long. It was only folks' devoted eyes that were sharp enough to pierce the mask of light-hearted gaiety which enveloped the soul of his leader at the present moment. He saw, for the first time in all the years that he had known Blakeney, a frown across the habitually smooth brow, and though the lips were parted for a laugh, the lines around mouth and chin were hard and set. With that intuition born of whole-hearted friendship Sir Andrew guessed what troubled Percy. He had caught the look which the latter had thrown on our mind, and knew that some explanation would have to pass between the two men before they parted to-night. Therefore he gave the signal for the breaking-up of the meeting. There is nothing more to say, is there, Blakeney? he asked. No, my good fellow, nothing, replied Sir Percy. I do not know how you all feel, but I am damned fatigued. What about the rags for to-morrow? queried Hastings. You know where to find them, in the room below. Folks has the key. Wigs and all are there. But don't use false hair if you can help it. It is apt to shift in a scrimmage. He spoke jerkily, more curtly than was his want. Hastings and Tony thought that he was tired. They arose to say good night. Then the three men went away together, Armand, remaining behind. Well now, Armand, what is it? asked Blakeney the moment the footsteps of his friends had died away down the stone stairs, and their voices had ceased to echo in the distance. You guessed, then, that there was something? said the young man after a slight hesitation. Of course. Armand rose, pushing the chair away from him with an impatient, nervy gesture.  Blakeney had once more taken up his favourite position, sitting on the corner of the table, his broad shoulders interposed between the lamp and the rest of the room. He was apparently taking no notice of Armand, but only intent on the delicate operation of polishing his nails. Suddenly the young man paused in his restless walk, and stood in front of his friend, an earnest, solemn, determined figure. Blakeney, he said, I cannot leave Paris to-morrow. Sir Percy made no reply. He was contemplating the polish which he had just succeeded in producing on his thumbnail. I must stay here for a while longer, continued Armand firmly. I may not be able to return to England for some weeks. You have the three others here to help you in your enterprise outside Paris. I am entirely at your service within the compass of its walls. Still no comment from Blakeney. Not a look from beneath the fallen lids. Armand continued, with a slight tone of impatience apparent in his voice. You must want someone to help you here on Sunday. I am entirely at your service, here or anywhere in Paris. But I cannot leave this city, at any rate, not just yet. Blakeney was apparently satisfied at last with the result of his polishing operations. He rose, gave a slight yawn, and turned toward the door. Good night, my dear fellow, he said pleasantly. It is time we are all a bed. I am so demmed fatigued. Pursy! exclaimed the young man, hotly. Eh? What is it? queried the other lazily. You are not going to leave me like this without a word. I have said a great many words, my good fellow. I have said good night, and remarked that I was demmed fatigued. He was standing beside the door which led to his bedroom, and now he pushed it open with his hand. Pursy, you cannot go and leave me like this! reiterated Armand with rapidly growing irritation. Like what, my dear fellow? queried Pursy with good-humoured impatience. Without a word, without a sign? What have I done that you should treat me like a child, unworthy even of attention? Blakeney had turned back and was now facing him, towering above the slight figure of the younger man. His face had lost none of its gracious air, and beneath their heavy lids, his eyes looked down not unkindly on his friend. Would you have preferred it, Armand, he said quietly, if I had said the word that your ears have heard even though my lips had not uttered it? I don't understand, murmured Armand defiantly. What sign would you have had me make? continued Sir Pursy, his pleasant voice falling calm and mellow on the younger man's super-sensitive consciousness.  Blakeney! retorted the other, as with flaming cheeks and wrathful eyes he took a menacing step toward his friend. Had any man but you dared to speak such words to me? I pray to God, Armand, that no man but I has the right to speak them. You have no right, every right, my friend. Do I not hold your oath? Are you not prepared to break it? I'll not break my oath to you. I'll serve and help you in every way you can command. My life I'll give to the cause. Give me the most dangerous, the most difficult task to perform. I'll do it. I'll do it gladly. I have given you an over-difficult and dangerous task, to leave Paris in order to engage horses while you and the others do all the work. That is neither difficult nor dangerous. It will be difficult for you, Armand, because your head is not sufficiently cool to foresee serious eventualities and to prepare against them. It is dangerous because you are a man in love, and a man in love is apt to run his head, and that of his friends, blindly into a noose.  You yourself, my good fellow. Had you not told me so at the outset, he continued, still speaking very quietly and deliberately, and never raising his voice.  Bah! he added with a return to his habitual bonomy. I would no doubt even have lost my temper with you, which would have been purposeless and excessively bad for me. A violent retort had sprung to Armand's lips, but fortunately, at that very moment, his eyes, glowing with anger, caught those of Blakeney, fixed with lazy good nature upon his. Something of that irresistible dignity which pervaded the whole personality of the man checked Armand's hot-headed words on his lips. I cannot leave Paris to-morrow. He reiterated more calmly. Because you have arranged to see her again? Because she saved my life today and is herself in danger. She is in no danger, said Blakeney simply, since she saved the life of my friend. Pussy! The cry was rung from Armand Saint-Just's very soul. Despite the tumult of passion which was raging in his heart, he was conscious again of the magnetic power which bound so many to this man's service. The words he had said, simple though they were, had sent a thrill through Armand's veins. He felt himself disarmed. His resistance fell before the subtle strength of an unbendable will. Nothing remained in his heart but an overwhelming sense of shame and of impotence. He sank into a chair and rested his elbows on the table, burying his face in his hands. Blakeney went up to him and placed a kindly hand upon his shoulder. The difficult task, Armand, he said gently, Pussy, cannot you release me?  I have not thanked her yet. There will be time for thanks later, Armand. Just now, over yonder, the Son of Kings is being done to death by savage brutes. I would not hinder you if I stayed. God knows you have hindered us enough already. How?  Then you were in danger. Heron and his spies have been on your track. Your track leads to mine, and I have sworn to save the dole-farm from the hands of thieves. A man in love, Armand, is a deadly danger among us. Therefore, at daybreak, you must leave Paris with hastings on your difficult and dangerous task. And if I refuse, retorted Armand. My good fellow, said Blakeney earnestly, in that admirable lexicon which the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel has compiled for itself, there is no such word as refuse. But if I do refuse, persisted the other. You would be offering a tainted name and tarnished honour to the woman you pretend to love. And you insist upon my obedience? By the oath which I hold from you. But this is cruel, inhuman. Honour, my good Armand, is often cruel and seldom human. He is a god-like task-master, and we who call ourselves men are all of us his slaves. The tyranny comes from you alone. You could release me, and you would. And to gratify the selfish desire of immature passion, you would wish to see me jeopardize the life of those who place infinite trust in me. God knows how you have gained their allegiance, Blakeney. To me now you are selfish and callous. There is the difficult task you craved for, Armand, was all the answer that Blakeney made to the taunt, to obey a leader whom you no longer trust. But this, Armand, could not brook. He had spoken hotly, impetuously, smarting under the discipline which thwarted his desire, but his heart was loyal to the chief whom he had reverenced for so long. Forgive me, Percy, he said humbly. I am distracted. I don't think I quite realize what I was saying. I trust you, of course, implicitly. And you need not even fear— I shall not break my oath, though your orders now seem to me needlessly callous and selfish. I will obey. You need not be afraid. I was not afraid of that, my good fellow. Of course, you do not understand. You cannot. To you, your honour, the task which you have set yourself, has been your only fetish. Love, in its true sense, does not exist for you. I see it now. You do not know what it is to love. Blakeney made no reply for the moment. He stood in the centre of the room, with the yellow light of the lamp falling full now upon his tall, powerful frame, immaculately dressed in perfectly tailored clothes, upon his long, slender hands, half hidden by filmy lace, and upon his face, across which, at this moment, a heavy strand of curly hair, through a curious shadow. At our man's words, his lips had imperceptibly tightened, his eyes had narrowed as if they tried to see something that was beyond the range of their focus. Across the smooth brow, the strange shadow made by the hair seemed to find a reflex from within. Perhaps the reckless adventurer, the careless gambler with life and liberty, saw through the walls of this squalid room, across the wide, ice-bound river, and beyond even the gloomy pile of buildings opposite, a cool, shady garden of Richmond, a velvety lawn sweeping down to the river's edge, a bower of climates and roses, with a carved stone seat half covered with moss. There sat an exquisitely beautiful woman, with great, sad eyes fixed on the far-distant horizon. The setting sun was throwing a halo of gold all round her hair. Her white hands were clasped idly on her lap. She gazed out beyond the river, beyond the sunset, toward an unseen borne of peace and happiness, and her lovely face had in it a look of utter hopelessness and of sublime self-abnegation. The air was still, it was late autumn, and all around her the rusted leaves of beech and chestnut fell with a melancholy hush about her feet. She was alone, and from time to time heavy tears gathered in her eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks. Suddenly a sigh escaped the man's tightly-pressed lips. With a strange gesture, wholly unusual to him, he passed his hand right across his eyes. "'May have you all right, Armand,' he said quietly. "'May have I do not know what it is to love.' Armand turned to go. There was nothing more to be said. He knew Percy well enough by now to realize the finality of his pronouncements. His heart felt sore, but he was too proud to show his hurt again to a man who did not understand. All thoughts of disobedience he had put resolutely aside. He had never meant to break his ove. All that he had hoped to do was to persuade Percy to release him from it for a while. That by leaving Paris he risked to lose Jean, he was quite convinced, but it is nevertheless a true fact that in spite of this he did not withdraw his love and trust from his chief. He was under the influence of that same magnetism which enchained all his comrades to the will of this man, and though his enthusiasm for the great cause had somewhat waned, his allegiance to its leader was no longer tottering. But he would not trust himself to speak again on the subject. "'I will find the others downstairs,' was all he said, and will arrange with Hastings for to-morrow. Good night, Percy." "'Good night, my dear fellow. By the way, you have not yet told me who she is.' "'Her name is Jean Lange,' said Saint-Just, half-reluctantly. He had not meant to divulge his secret quite so fully as yet. "'The young actress at the Théâtre Nationale?' "'Yes, do you know her?' "'Only by name. She is beautiful, Percy, and she is an angel. Think of my sister, Marguerite. She too was an actress.' "'Good night, Percy. Good night.' The two men grasped one another by the hand. Arman's eyes preferred a last, desperate appeal, but Blakeney's eyes were impassive and unrelenting, and Arman, with a quick sigh, finally took his leave. For a long while after he had gone, Blakeney stood silent and motionless in the middle of the room. Arman's last words lingered in his ear. Think of Marguerite. The walls had fallen away from around him. The window, the river below, the temple-prison had all faded away, merged in the chaos of his thoughts. Now he was no longer in Paris. He heard nothing of the horrors that, even at this hour of the night, were raging around him. He did not hear the call of murdered victims, of innocent women, and children crying for help. He did not see the descendant of Saint-Louis with a red cap on his baby head, stamping on the fleur-de-lis and heaping insults on the memory of his mother. All that had faded into nothingness. He was in the garden at Richmond, and Marguerite was sitting on the stone seat, with branches of the rambler roses twining themselves in her hair. He was sitting on the ground at her feet, his head pillowed in her lap, lazily dreaming. Whilst at his feet the river wound its graceful curves beneath overhanging willows and tall, stately elms. A swan came sailing majestically down the stream, and Marguerite, with idle, delicate hands, threw some crumbs of bread into the water. Then she laughed, for she was quite happy, and a nun she stooped, and he felt the fragrance of her lips as she bent over him, and savoured the perfect sweetness of her caress. She was happy because her husband was by her side. He had done with adventures, with risking his life for other's sake. He was living only for her. The man, the dreamer, the idealist that lurked behind the adventurous soul, lived an exquisite dream, as he gazed upon that vision. He closed his eyes so that it might last all the longer, so that through the open window opposite he should not see the great, gloomy walls of the labyrinthine building packed to overflowing with innocent men, women, and children waiting patiently and with a smile on their lips, for a cruel and unmerited death, so that he should not see even through the vista of houses and of streets that grim temple prison far away, and the light in one of the tower windows which illumined the final martyrdom of a boy-king. Thus he stood for fully five minutes, with eyes deliberately closed and lips tightly set. Then the neighbouring tower-clock of Saint-Germain de l'Oxroy slowly told the hour of midnight. Blakeney woke from his dream. The walls of his lodging were once more around him, and through the window the ruddy light of some torch in the street below fought with that of the lamp. He went deliberately up to the window and looked out into the night. On the key a little to the left the outdoor camp was just breaking up for the night. The people of France and arms against tyranny were allowed to put away their work for the day and to go to their miserable homes to gather rest in sleep for the morrow. A band of soldiers, rough and brutal in their movements, were hustling the women and children. The little ones, weary, sleepy and cold, seemed two days to move.  A soldier suddenly seized one of them by the shoulders and pushed it along roughly in front of him to get it out of the way.  In a moment she was surrounded. Two soldiers seized her and two more dragged the children away from her. She screamed and the children cried. The soldiers swore and struck out right and left with their bayonets. There was a general melee. Calls of agony rent the air. Rough oaths drowned the shouts of the helpless. Some women panic-stricken started to run. And Blake knee from his window looked down upon the scene. He no longer saw the garden at Richmond, the lazily flowing river, the bowers of roses. Even the sweet face of Marguerite, sad and lonely, appeared dim and far away. He looked across the ice-bound river, past the key where rough soldiers were brutalising a number of wretched, defenceless women, to that grim, shatlet prison, where tiny lights shining here and there behind barred windows towed the sad tale of weary vigils of watches through the night when dawn would bring martyrdom and death. And it was not Marguerite's blue eyes that beckoned to him now. It was not her lips that called, but the one face of a child with matted curls hanging above a greasy forehead, and small hands covered in grime that had once been fondled by a queen. The adventurer in him had chased away the dream. While there is life in me, I'll cheat those brutes of prey, he murmured. A kind of fever ran through him, causing his teeth to chatter and the veins in his temples to throb until he thought that they must burst. Physically, he certainly was ill. The mental strain caused by two great conflicting passions had attacked his bodily strength, and whilst his brain and heart fought their battles together, his aching limbs found no repose.  The superacute feeling seemed to be tearing at his very heartstrings, until he felt that he could no longer lie on the miserable Palaeus which in these squalid lodgings did duty for a bed. He rose long before daybreak, with tired back and burning eyes, but unconscious of any pain saved that which tore at his heart. The weather, fortunately, was not quite so cold, a sudden and very rapid thaw had set in, and when, after a hurried toilette, Armand carrying a bundle under his arm, emerged into the street, the mild south wind struck pleasantly on his face. It was then pitch dark, the street lamps had been extinguished long ago, and the feeble January sun had not yet tinged with pale colour the heavy clouds that hung over the sky. The streets of the great city were absolutely deserted at this hour. It lay peaceful and still, wrapped in its mantle of gloom. A thin rain was falling and Armand's feet, as he began to descend the heights of Marmontre, sank ankle-deep in the mud of the road. There was but scanty attempted pavements in this outlying quarter of the town, and Armand had much ado to keep his footing on the uneven and intermittent stones that did duty for roads in these parts. But this discomfort did not trouble him just now. One thought, and one alone, was clear in his mind. He must see Jean before he left Paris. He did not pause to think how he could accomplish that at this hour of the day. All he knew was that he must obey his chief, and that he must see Jean. He would see her, explain to her that he must leave Paris immediately, and beg her to make her preparations quickly, so that she might see him as soon as may be, and accompany him to England straight away. He did not feel that he was being disloyal by trying to see Jean. He had thrown prudence to the winds, not realising that his imprudence would and did jeopardise, not only the success of his chief's plans, but also his life and that of his friends. He had, before parting from Hastings last night, arranged to meet him in the neighbourhood of the Neuilly gate at seven o'clock. It was only six now. There was plenty of time for him to rouse the concierge of the house of the Square du Roul, to see Jean for a few moments, to slip into Madame Bellom's kitchen and there into the labourer's clothes which he was carrying in the bundle under his arm, and to be at the gate at the appointed hour. The Square du Roul is shut off from the Rue Saint-Honoré, on which it abatts, by tall iron gates, which a few years ago, when the secluded little square was a fashionable quarter of the city, used to be kept closed at night, with a watchman in uniform to intercept midnight prowlers. Now these gates had been rudely torn away from their sockets. The iron had been sold for the benefit of the ever-empty treasury, and no one cared if the homeless, the starving, or the evil doer found shelter under the porticoes of the houses, from whence wealthy or aristocratic owners had long since thought it wise to flee. No one challenged Armand when he turned into the square, and though the darkness was intense, he made his way fairly straight for the house where lodged Mademoiselle-Lange. So far he had been wonderfully lucky. The full hardiness with which he had exposed his life and that of his friends by wandering about the streets of Paris at this hour without any attempt at disguise, though carrying one under his arm, had not met with the untoward fate which it undoubtedly deserved. The darkness of the night and the thin sheet of rain, as it fell, had effectually wrapped his progress through the lonely streets in their beneficent mantle of gloom. The soft mud below had drowned the echo of his footsteps. If spies were on his track, as Jean had feared and Blakeney prophesied, he had certainly succeeded in evading them. He pulled the concierge's bell, and the latter the outer door, manipulated from within, duly sprang open in response. He entered, and from the lodge the concierge's voice emerging, muffled from the depths of pillows and blankets, challenged him with an oath directed at the unseemliness of the hour. Mademoiselle-Lange, said Armand boldly, as without hesitation he walked past the lodge, making straight for the stairs. It seemed to him that from the concierge's room loud recuperations followed him, but he took no notice of these. Only a short flight of stairs and one more door separated him from Jean. He did not pause to think that she would in all probability be still in bed, that he might have some difficulty in rousing Madame Bellom, that the latter might not even care to admit him, nor did he reflect on the glaring imprudence of his actions. He wanted to see Jean, and she was on the other side of that wall. Eh, citizen! Hola! Here! Curse you! Where are you? came in a gruff voice to him from below. He had mounted the stairs, and was now on the landing just outside Jean's door. He pulled the bell-handle, and heard the pleasing echo of the bell that would presently wake Madame Bellom and bring her to the door. Citizen! Hola! Curse you for a narristor! What are you doing there? The concierge, a stout, elderly man, wrapped in a blanket, his feet thrust in slippers, and carrying a guttering tallow candle, had appeared upon the landing. He held the candle up so that its feeble flickering rays fell on Armand's pale face, and on the damp cloak which fell away from his shoulders. What are you doing there? Reiterated the concierge with another oath from his prolific vocabulary. As you see, citizen, replied Armand politely, I am ringing mademoiselle Lange's front doorbell. At this hour of the morning, queried the man with a sneer, I desire to see her. Then you have come to the wrong house, citizen, said the concierge with a rude laugh. The wrong house? What do you mean? stammered Armand, a little bewildered. She is not here, qua, retorted the concierge, who now turned deliberately on his heel. Go and look for her, citizen. It'll take you some time to find her. He shuffled off in the direction of the stairs. Armand was vainly trying to shake himself free from a sudden, an awful sense of horror. He gave another vigorous pull at the bell. Then, with one bound, he overtook the concierge, who was preparing to descend the stairs, and gripped him peremptorily by the arm. Where is mademoiselle Lange? he asked. His voice sounded quite strange in his own ear. His throat felt parched, and he had to moisten his lips with his tongue before he was able to speak. Arrested! replied the man. Arrested? When? Where? How? When? Late yesterday evening. Where? Here, in her room. How? By the agents of the Committee of General Security. She and the old woman. Basta! That's all I know. Now I am going back to bed, and you'll clear out of the house. You're making a disturbance, and I shall be reprimanded. I ask you, is this a decent time for rousing honest patriots out of their morning sleep? He shook his arm free from Arman's grasp, and once more began to descend. Arman stood on the landing like a man who has been stunned by a blow on the head. His limbs were paralyzed. He could not for the moment have moved or spoken if his life had depended on a sign or a word. His brain was reeling, and he had to steady himself with his hand against the wall, or he would have fallen headlong on the floor. He had lived in a whirl of excitement for the past twenty-four hours. His nerves during that time had been kept at straining point. Passion, joy, happiness, deadly danger, and moral fights had worn his mental endurance threadbare. Want of proper food in a sleepless night had almost thrown his physical balance out of gear. This blow came at a moment when he was least able to bear it. Jean had been arrested. Jean was in the hands of those brutes whom he, Arman, had regarded yesterday with insurmountable loathing. Jean was in prison. She was arrested. She would be tried, condemned, and all because of him. The thought was so awful that it brought him to the verge of mania. He watched as in a dream the form of the concierge shuffling his way down the oak staircase. His portly figure assumed gargantuan proportions. The candle which he carried looked like the dancing flames of hell, through which grinning faces, hideous and contortioned, mocked at him and leered. Then suddenly everything was dark. The light had disappeared round the bend of the stairs. Grinning faces and ghoulish visions vanished. He saw only Jean, his dainty, exquisite Jean, in the hands of those brutes. He saw her, as he had seen a year and a half ago, the victims of those bloodthirsty wretches being dragged before a tribunal that was but a mockery of justice. He heard the quick interrogatory and the responses from her perfect lips, that exquisite voice of hers failed by tones of anguish. He heard the condemnation, the rattle of the tumble on the ill-paved streets. Saw her there, with hands clasped together, her eyes—great God!—he was really going mad.  In a moment he was out of the little square. Then, like a hunted hair, he still rang down the Rue Saint-Honoré, along its narrow, interminable length. His hat had fallen from his head, his hair was wild all round his face, the rain weighted the cloak upon his shoulders, but still he ran. His feet made no noise on the muddy pavement. He ran on and on, his elbows pressed to his sides, panting, quivering, intent, but upon one thing, the goal which he had set himself to reach. Jean was arrested. He did not know where to look for her, but he did know whither he wanted to go now as swiftly as his legs would carry him. It was still dark, but Armand Saint-Just was a born Parisian, and he knew every inch of this quarter where he and Marguerite had years ago lived. Down the Rue Saint-Honoré, he had reached the bottom of the interminable long street at last. He had kept just a sufficiency of reason, or was it merely blind instinct, to avoid the places where the night patrols of the National Guard might be on the watch. He avoided the blasts du Carousel, or to the Quay, and struck sharply to his right until he reached the façade of Saint-Germain-Locsroix. Another effort, round the corner, and there was the house at last. He was like the hunted creature now that has run to Earth. Up the two flights of stone stairs, and then the pull of the bell, a moment of tense anxiety, whilst panting, gasping, almost choked with a sustained effort in the strain of the past half-hour, he leaned against the wall, striving not to fall. Then, the well-known firm step across the rooms beyond, the open door, the hand upon his shoulder. After that, he remembered nothing more. CHAPTER XIV THE CHIEF He had not actually fainted, but the exertion of that long run had rendered him partially unconscious. He knew now that he was safe, that he was sitting in Blakeney's room, and that something hot and vivifying was being poured down his throat. Pursy! They have arrested her! he said, panting, as soon as speech returned to his paralyzed tongue. All right. Don't talk now. Wait till you are better. With infinite care and gentleness, Blakeney arranged some cushions around our man's head, turned the sofa towards the fire, and a non-brought his friend a cup of hot coffee, which the latter drank with avidity. He was really too exhausted to speak. He had contrived to tell Blakeney, and now Blakeney knew, so everything would be all right. The inevitable reaction was asserting itself. The muscles had relaxed, the nerves were numbed, and our man lay back on the sofa, with eyes half closed, unable to move, yet feeling his strength gradually returning to him, his vitality asserting itself, all the feverish excitement of the past twenty-four hours, yielding at last to a calmer mood. Through his half-closed eyes he could see his brother-in-law moving about the room. Blakeney was fully dressed. In a sleepy kind of way, Armand wondered if he had been to bed at all. Certainly his clothes set on him with their usual well-tailored perfection, and there was no suggestion in his brisk step and alert movements that he had passed a sleepless night. Now he was standing by the open window. Armand, from where he lay, could see his broad shoulders sharply outlined against the gray background of the hazy winter dawn. A one light was just creeping up from the east over the city. The noises of the streets below came distinctly to Armand's ear. He roused himself with one vigorous effort from his lethargy, feeling quite ashamed of himself and of this breakdown of his nervous system. He looked with frank admiration on Sir Percy, who stood immovable and silent by the window, a perfect tower of strength, serene and impassive, yet kindly in distress. Percy—said the young man—I ran all the way from the top of Vero Saint-Donoré. I was only breathless. I am quite all right. May I tell you all about it? Without a word, Blakeney closed the window and came across to the sofa. He sat down beside Armand, and to all outward appearances he was nothing now but a kind and sympathetic listener to a friend's tale of woe. Not a line in his face or a look in his eyes betrayed the thoughts of the leader who had been thwarted at the outset of a dangerous enterprise, or of the man accustomed to command, who had been so flagrantly disobeyed. Armand, unconscious of all save of Jean and of her immediate need, put an eager hand on Percy's arm. Heron and his hellhounds went back to her lodgings last night, he said, speaking as if he was still a little out of breath. They hoped to get me, no doubt. Not finding me there, they took her. Oh, my God! It was the first time that he had put the whole terrible circumstance into words, and it seemed to gain in reality by the recounting. The agony of mind which he endured was almost unbearable. He hid his face in his hands, lest Percy should see how terribly he suffered. I knew that, said Blakeney quietly. Armand looked up in surprise. How? When did you know it? he stammered. Last night, when you left me. I went down to the square du roule. I arrived there just too late.  You did that? Last night you—of course—interposed the other calmly, had I not promised you to keep watch over her? When I heard the news it was already too late to make further inquiries, but when you arrived just now I was on the point of starting out in order to find out in what prison Mademoiselle Lange is being detained. I shall have to go soon, Armand, before the guard has changed at the temple and the tullaries. This is the safest time, and God knows we are all of us sufficiently compromised already. The flush of shame deepened in Saint-Just's cheek.  In a moment now, Armand realized all the harm which his recklessness had done was still doing to the work of the league. Every one of his actions, since his arrival in Paris two days ago, had jeopardized a plan or endangered a life. His friendship with debates, his connection with Mademoiselle Lange, his visit to her yesterday afternoon—the repetition of it this morning, culminating in that wild run through the streets of Paris when, at any moment, a spy lurking round a corner, might either have barred his way, or worse still, have followed him to Blakeney's door. Armand, without a thought of any one save of his beloved, might easily this morning have brought an agent of the Committee of General Security face to face with his chief. Pursy! he murmured. Can you ever forgive me? Char-man! retorted Blakeney lightly. There is not to forgive. Only a great deal that should no longer be forgotten. Your duty to the others, for instance, your obedience, and your honour. I was mad, Pursy. Oh, if you only could understand what she means to me! Blakeney laughed, his own light-hearted careless laugh, which so often before now had helped to hide what he really felt from the eyes of the indifferent, and even from those of his friends. No, no, he said lightly. We agreed last night, did we not, that in matters of sentiment I am a cold-blooded fish. But will you at any rate concede that I am a man of my word? Did I not pledge it last night that Mademoiselle Lange would be safe? I foresaw her arrest the moment I heard your story. I hoped that I might reach her before that brute heron's return. Unfortunately, he forestalled me by less than half an hour. Mademoiselle Lange has been arrested, Armand. But why should you not trust me on that account? Have we not succeeded, I and the others, in worse cases than this one? They mean no harm to Jean Lange, he added emphatically. I give you my word on that. They only want her as a decoy. It is you they want.  I pledge you my honour that she will be safe. You must try and trust me, Armand. It is much to ask, I know, for you will have to trust me with what is most precious in the world to you, and you will have to obey me blindly, or I shall not be able to keep my word. What do you wish me to do? Firstly, you must be outside Paris within the hour. Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger. Oh, no, not for you," added Blatney, checking with a good humour gesture Armand's words of protestation, danger for the others, and for our scheme to-morrow. How can I go to Saint-Germain Percy, knowing that she is under my charge, interposed to the other calmly? That should not be so very difficult. Come," he added, placing a kindly hand on the other shoulder. You shall not find me such an inhuman monster, after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. But I won't send you as far as Saint-Germain. Go down to the room below, and find a good bundle of rough clothes that will serve you as a disguise, for I imagine that you have lost those which you had on the landing, or the stairs of the house in the square-due hall. In a tin box with the clothes downstairs you will find the packet of miscellaneous certificates of safety. Take an appropriate one, and then start out immediately for Viet.  Yes, yes," said Armand, eagerly. You want me to join folks in Tony? Yes. You'll find them probably unloading coal by the canal. Try and get private speech with them as early as may be, and tell Tony to set out at once for Saint-Germain, and to join Hastings there, instead of you, whilst you take his place with folks. Yes, I understand. But how will Tony reach Saint-Germain? La, my good fellow," said Blakeney Gailey, you may safely trust Tony to go where I sent him. Do you, but do as I tell you, and leave him to look after himself. And now," he added, speaking more earnestly, the sooner you get out of Paris the better it will be for us all. As you see, I am only sending you to Léviyet because it is not so far, but that I can keep in personal touch with you. Remain close to the gates for an hour after nightfall. I will contrive before they close to bring you news of mademoiselle large. Armand said no more. The sense of shame in him deepened with every word spoken by his chief. He felt how untrustworthy he had been, how undeserving of the selfless devotion which Percy was showing him even now. The words of gratitude died on his lips. He knew that they would be unwelcome. These Englishmen were so devoid of sentiment, he thought, and his brother-in-law, with all his unselfish and heroic deeds, was, he felt, absolutely callous in matters of the heart. But Armand was a noble-minded man, and with the true sporting instinct in him despite the fact that he was a creature of nerves, highly strung and imaginative. He could give ungrudging admiration to his chief, even whilst giving himself up entirely to the sentiment for Jean. He tried to imbue himself with the same spirit that actuated my Lord Tony and the others of the league.  But somehow he knew that jokes from him would not ring true. How could he smile when his heart was brimming over with his love for Jean and with solicitude on her account? He felt that Percy was regarding him with a kind of indulgent amusement. There was a look of suppressed merriment in the depths of those lazy blue eyes. So he braced up his nerves, trying his best to look cool and unconcerned, but he could not altogether hide from his friend the burning anxiety which was threatening to break his heart. I have given you my word, Armand," said Blakeney, in answer to the unspoken prayer. Can you try and trust me, as the others do? Then, with sudden transition, he pointed to the map behind him. Remember the gate of Viet and the corner by the tow-path. Join folks as soon as may be, and send Tony on his way, and wait for news of Mademoiselle launched some time to-night.  Good-bye. Good-bye, my dear fellow. Slip on your disguise as quickly as you can, and be out of the house in a quarter of an hour. He accompanied Armand through the anti-room and finally closed the door on him. Then he went back to his room and walked up to the window which he threw open to the humid morning air. Now that he was alone, the look of trouble on his face deepened to a dark, anxious frown, and as he looked out across the river, a sigh of bitter impatience and disappointment escaped his lips. Armand, dressed in the rough clothes of a laboring man, was leaning against a low wall at the angle of the narrow street which abuts on the canal at its further end. From this point of vantage he could command a view of the gate and of the life and bustle around it. He was dog-tired. After the emotions of the past twenty-four hours, a day's hard, manual toil to which he was unaccustomed had caused him to ache in every limb. As soon as he had arrived at the canal-warf in the early morning, he had obtained the kind of casual work that ruled about here, and soon was told off to unload a cargo of coal which had arrived by barge overnight. He had set to with a will, half hoping to kill his anxiety by dint of heavy, bodily exertion. During the course of the morning he had suddenly become aware of Sir Andrew Folks and of Lord Anthony Dewhurst, who had been in the course of the morning, working not far away from him, and as fine a pair of coal-heavers as any shipper could desire. It was not very difficult in the midst of the noise and activity that reigned all about the wharf for the three men to exchange a few words together, and Armand soon communicated the chief's new instructions to my Lord Tony, who effectually slipped away from his work some time during the day. Armand did not even see him go. It had all been so neatly done. Just before five o'clock in the afternoon, the laborers were paid off. It was then too dark to continue work. Armand would have liked to talk to Sir Andrew if only for a moment. He felt lonely and desperately anxious. He had hoped to tire out his nerves as well as his body, but in this he had not succeeded.  It followed Percy in his peregrinations through the city, trying to discover where those brutes were keeping Jean. That task had suddenly loomed up before Armand's mind with all its terrible difficulties. How could Percy, a marked man if ever there was one, go from prison to prison to inquire about Jean? The very idea seemed preposterous. Armand ought never to have consented to such an insensitive plan. The more he thought of it, the more impossible did it seem that Blakeney could find anything out. Sir Andrew Folks was nowhere to be seen. Saint-Just wondered about in the dark, lonely streets of this outlying quarter, vainly trying to find the friend in whom he could confide, who, no doubt, would reassure him as to Blakeney's probable movements in Paris. Then, as the hour approached for the closing of the city gates, Armand took up his stand at an angle of the street from whence he could see both the gate on one side of him, and the thin line of the canal intersecting the street at its further end. Unless Percy came within the next five minutes, the gates would be closed, and the difficulties of crossing the barrier would be increased a hundredfold. The market gardeners with their covered carts filed out of the gate one by one. The labourers on foot were returning to their homes. There was a group of stone masons, a few road-makers, also a number of beggars, ragged and filthy, who heard it somewhere in the neighbourhood of the canal. In every form, under every disguise, Armand hoped to discover Percy. He could not stand still for very long, but strode up and down the road that skirts the fortifications at this point. There were a good many idlers about at this hour. Some men who had finished their work and meant to spend an hour or so in one of the drinking-shops that abounded in the neighbourhood of the wharf.  Armand, trying manfully to play his part, joined one of the groups that stood gaping round a street orator. He shouted with the best of them, waved his cap in the air, and applauded or hissed in unison with the majority. But his eyes never wandered for a long away from the gate whence Percy must come now at any moment—now, or not at all. At what precise moment the awful doubt took birth in his mind the young man could not afterwards have said, perhaps it was when he heard the role of drums proclaiming the closing of gates, and witnessed the changing of the guard. Percy had not come. He could not come now, and he, Armand, would have the night to face without news of Jean. Something, of course, had attained Percy. Perhaps he had been unable to get definite information about Jean. Perhaps the information which he had obtained was too terrible to communicate. If only surround-drew folks had been there, and Armand had had someone to talk to, perhaps then he would have found sufficient strength of mind to wait without with patience, even though his nerves were on the rack. Darkness closed in around him, and with the darkness came the full return of the phantoms that had assailed him in the house of the Square du Roule, when first he had heard of Jean's arrest. The open place facing the gate had transformed itself into the Place de la Révolution. The tall, rough post that held a flickering oil-lamp had become the gaunt arm of the guillotine. The feeble light of the gate had been the arm of the guillotine. The feeble light of the lamp was the knife that gleamed with a reflection of a crimson light. And Armand saw himself, as in a vision, one of a vast and noisy throng. They were all pressing round him so that he could not move. They were brandishing caps and tricolour flags, also pitchforks and sides. He had seen such a crowd four years ago rushing towards the Bastille. Now they were all assembled here around him and around the guillotine. Suddenly a distant rattle caught his subconscious ear. The rattle of wheels on rough cobblestones. Immediately the crowd began to cheer and to shout. Some sang the Saïra, and others screamed, Les Aristos, à la l'interne! Amor! Amor! Les Aristos! He saw it all quite plainly, for the darkness had vanished, and the vision was more vivid than even reality could have been. The rattle of wheels grew louder, and presently the cart debushed on the open place. Men and women sat huddled up in the cart, but in the midst of them a woman stood, and her eyes were fixed upon Armand.  Her brown hair fell in loose, soft curls all around her head. She looked exactly like the exquisite cameo which Marguerite used to wear. Her hands were tied with cords behind her back, but between her fingers she held a small bunch of violets. Armand saw it all. It was, of course, a vision, and he knew that it was one. But he believed that the vision was prophetic. No thought of the chief whom he had sworn to trust and to obey came to chase away these imaginings of his fevered fancy. He saw Jean and only Jean, standing on the tumbre, and being led to the guillotine. Sir Andrew was not there, and Percy had not come. Armand believed that a direct message had come to him from heaven to save his beloved. Therefore he forgot his promise—his oath. He forgot those very things which the leader had entreated him to remember—his duty to the others, his loyalty, his obedience. Jean had first claim on him. It were the act of a coward to remain in safety whilst she was in such deadly danger. Now he blamed himself severely for having quitted Paris. Even Percy must have thought him a coward for obeying quite so readily. Maybe the command had been but a test of his courage, of the strength of his love for Jean. A hundred conjectures flashed through his brain. A hundred plans presented themselves to his mind. It was not for Percy who did not know her to save Jean or to guard her. That task was Armand's who worshipped her, and who would gladly die beside her if he failed to rescue her from threatened death. Resolution was not slow and coming. A tower-clock inside the city struck the hour of six, and still no sign of Percy. Armand, his certificate of safety in his hand, walked boldly up to the gate. The guard challenged him, but he presented the certificate. There was an agonizing moment when the card was taken from him, and he was detained in the guard room while it was being examined by the sergeant in command. But the certificate was in good order, and Armand, covered in cold dust, with the perspiration streaming down his face, did certainly not look like an aristocrat in disguise. It was never very difficult to enter the great city. If one wished to put one's head in the lion's mouth, one was welcome to do so. The difficulty came when the lion thought fit to close his jaws. Armand, after five minutes of tense anxiety, was allowed to cross the barrier, but his certificate of safety was detained. He would have to get another from the Committee of General Security before he would be allowed to leave Paris again. The lion had thought fit to close his jaws.