, 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 Comedie Francaise. She had never seen Marguerite St.
Just 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, where in 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 Pimpernel? Tell me about him, monsieur."

"Ah, mademoiselle, what can I tell you that you do not already know? The
Scarlet Pimpernel 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 Pimpernel 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! mayhap
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 bo