car of the Goddess of
Reason, the special feature of this great national fete. It was only a
rough market cart, painted by an unpractised hand with bright, crimson
paint and adorned with huge clusters of autumn-tinted leaves, and the
scarlet berries of mountain ash and rowan, culled from the town gardens,
or the country side outside the city walls.

In the cart the goddess reclined on a crimson-draped seat, she, herself,
swathed in white, and wearing a gorgeous necklace around her neck.
Desiree Candeille, a little pale, a little apprehensive of all this
noise, had obeyed the final dictates of her taskmaster. She had been the
means of bringing the Scarlet Pimpernel to France and vengeance, she was
to be honoured therefore above every other woman in France.

She sat in the car, vaguely thinking over the events of the past few
days, whilst watching the throng of rowdy merrymakers seething around
her. She thought of the noble-hearted, proud woman whom she had helped
to bring from her beautiful English home to sorrow and humiliation in
a dank French prison, she thought of the gallant English gentleman with
his pleasant voice and courtly, debonnair manners.

Chauvelin had roughly told her, only this morning, that both were now
under arrest as English spies, and that their fate no longer concerned
her. Later on the governor of the city had come to tell her that Citizen
Chauvelin desired her to take part in the procession and the national
fete, as the Goddess of Reason, and that the people of Boulogne were
ready to welcome her as such. This had pleased Candeille's vanity, and
all day, whilst arranging the finery which she meant to wear for the
occasion, she had ceased to think of England and of Lady Blakeney.

But now, when she arrived on the Place de la Senechaussee, and mounting
her car, found herself on a level with the platform of the guillotine,
her memory flew back to England, to the lavish hospitality of Blakeney
Manor, Marguerite's gentle voice, the pleasing grace of Sir Percy's
manners, and she shuddered a little when that cruel glint of evening
light caused the knife of the guillotine to glisten from out the gloom.

But anon her reflections were suddenly interrupted by loud and prolonged
shouts of joy. A whole throng of Pierrots had swarmed into the Place
from every side, carrying lighted torches and tall staves, on which were
hung lanthorns with many-coloured lights.

The procession was ready to start. A stentor