St. Just, seemed
to give him strange satisfaction.

"Armand St. Just a traitor after all," he murmured. "Now, fair
Marguerite Blakeney," he added viciously between his clenched teeth, "I
think that you will help me to find the Scarlet Pimpernel."

CHAPTER X IN THE OPERA BOX

It was one of the gala nights at Covent Garden Theatre, the first of the
autumn season in this memorable year of grace 1792.

The house was packed, both in the smart orchestra boxes and in the pit,
as well as in the more plebeian balconies and galleries above. Gluck's
ORPHEUS made a strong appeal to the more intellectual portions of the
house, whilst the fashionable women, the gaily-dressed and brilliant
throng, spoke to the eye of those who cared but little for this "latest
importation from Germany."

Selina Storace had been duly applauded after her grand ARIA by her
numerous admirers; Benjamin Incledon, the acknowledged favourite of the
ladies, had received special gracious recognition from the royal box;
and now the curtain came down after the glorious finale to the second
act, and the audience, which had hung spell-bound on the magic strains
of the great maestro, seemed collectively to breathe a long sigh of
satisfaction, previous to letting loose its hundreds of waggish and
frivolous tongues. In the smart orchestra boxes many well-known faces
were to be seen. Mr. Pitt, overweighted with cares of state, was finding
brief relaxation in to-night's musical treat; the Prince of Wales,
jovial, rotund, somewhat coarse and commonplace in appearance, moved
about from box to box, spending brief quarters of an hour with those of
his more intimate friends.

In Lord Grenville's box, too, a curious, interesting personality
attracted everyone's attention; a thin, small figure with shrewd,
sarcastic face and deep-set eyes, attentive to the music, keenly
critical of the audience, dressed in immaculate black, with dark hair
free from any powder. Lord Grenville--Foreign Secretary of State--paid
him marked, though frigid deference.

Here and there, dotted about among distinctly English types of beauty,
one or two foreign faces stood out in marked contrast: the haughty
aristocratic cast of countenance of the many French royalist EMIGRES
who, persecuted by the relentless, revolutionary faction of their
country, had found a peaceful refuge in England. On these faces sorrow
and care were deeply writ; the women especially paid but little heed,
eithe