"Heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel?" she retorted with a long and merry laugh, "Faith man! we talk of nothing else. . . . We have hats 'a la Scarlet Pimpernel'; our horses are called `Scarlet Pimpernel';at the Prince of Wales' supper party the other night we had a `souffle a la Scarlet Pimpernel.'. . .Lud!" she added gaily, "the other day Iordered at my milliner's a blue dress trimmed with green, and bless me, if she did not call that `a la Scarlet Pimpernel.'"Chauvelin had not moved while she prattled merrily along; he did not even attempt to stop her when her musical voice and her childlike laugh went echoing through the still evening air. But he remained serious and earnest whilst she laughed, and his voice, clear, incisive, and hard, was not raised above his breath as he said,--"Then, as you have heard of that enigmatical personage, citoyenne, you must also have guessed, and know, that the man who hides his identity under that strange pseudonym, is the most bitter enemy of our republic, of France. . .of men like Armand St. Just.""La!.." she said, with a quaint little sigh, "I dare swear he is. . . . France has many bitter enemies these days.""But you, citoyenne, are a daughter of France, and should be ready to help her in a moment of deadly peril.""My brother Armand devotes his life to France," she retorted proudly; "as for me, I can do nothing. . .here in England. . . .""Yes, you. . ." he urged still more earnestly, whilst his thin fox-like face seemed suddenly to have grown impressive and full of dignity, "here, in England, citoyenne. . .you alone can help us. . . .
