amiable
reception of me at our last meeting still dwells pleasantly in my
memory."

"We poor exiles, Madame," rejoined the Comtesse, frigidly, "show our
gratitude to England by devotion to the wishes of Monseigneur."

"Madame!" said Marguerite, with another ceremonious curtsey.

"Madame," responded the Comtesse with equal dignity.

The Prince in the meanwhile was saying a few gracious words to the young
Vicomte.

"I am happy to know you, Monsieur le Vicomte," he said. "I knew your
father well when he was ambassador in London."

"Ah, Monseigneur!" replied the Vicomte, "I was a leetle boy then . . .
and now I owe the honour of this meeting to our protector, the Scarlet
Pimpernel."

"Hush!" said the Prince, earnestly and quickly, as he indicated
Chauvelin, who had stood a little on one side throughout the whole of
this little scene, watching Marguerite and the Comtesse with an amused,
sarcastic little smile around his thin lips.

"Nay, Monseigneur," he said now, as if in direct response to the
Prince's challenge, "pray do not check this gentleman's display of
gratitude; the name of that interesting red flower is well known to
me--and to France."

The Prince looked at him keenly for a moment or two.

"Faith, then, Monsieur," he said, "perhaps you know more about our
national hero than we do ourselves . . . perchance you know who he is.
. . . See!" he added, turning to the groups round the room, "the ladies
hang upon your lips . . . you would render yourself popular among the
fair sex if you were to gratify their curiosity."

"Ah, Monseigneur," said Chauvelin, significantly, "rumour has it in
France that your Highness could--an you would--give the truest account
of that enigmatical wayside flower."

He looked quickly and keenly at Marguerite as he spoke; but she betrayed
no emotion, and her eyes met his quite fearlessly.

"Nay, man," replied the Prince, "my lips are sealed! and the members of
the league jealously guard the secret of their chief . . . so his fair
adorers have to be content with worshipping a shadow. Here in England,
Monsieur," he added, with wonderful charm and dignity, "we but name
the Scarlet Pimpernel, and every fair cheek is suffused with a blush of
enthusiasm. None have seen him save his faithful lieutenants. We know
not if he be tall or short, fair or dark, handsome or ill-formed; but we
know that he is the bravest gentleman in all the world, and we all feel
a little proud, Monsieur, w