on in her own misguided country.

"Ah, monsieur!" she said in broken English, "it is dreadful to
hear all that--and my poor husband still in that awful country. It is

terrible for me to be sitting here, in a theatre, all safe and in
peace, whilst he is in such peril."

"Lud, Madame!" said honest, bluff Lady Portarles, "your
sitting in a convent won't make your husband safe, and you have your

children to consider: they are too young to be dosed with anxiety and
premature mourning."

The Comtesse smiled through her tears at the vehemence of her
friend. Lady Portarles, whose voice and manner would not have

misfitted a jockey, had a heart of gold, and hid the most genuine
sympathy and most gentle kindliness, beneath the somewhat coarse

manners affected by some ladies at that time.
"Besides which, Madame," added Lord Grenville, "did you not

tell me yesterday that the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had pledged
their honour to bring M. le Comte safely across the Channel?"

"Ah, yes!" replied the Comtesse, "and that is my only hope. I
saw Lord Hastings yesterday. . .he reassured me again."

"Then I am sure you need have no fear. What the league have
sworn, that they surely will accomplish. Ah!" added the old diplomat

with a sigh, "if I were but a few years younger. . ."
"La, man!" interrupted honest Lady Portarles, "you are still

young enough to turn your back on that French scarecrow that sits
enthroned in your box to-night."

"I wish I could. . .but your ladyship must remember that in
serving our country we must put prejudices aside. M. Chauvelin is the

accredited agent of his Government. . ."
"Odd's fish, man!" she retorted, "you don't call those

bloodthirsty ruffians over there a government, do you?"
"It has not been thought advisable as yet," said the Minister,

guardedly, "for England to break off diplomatic relations with France,
and we cannot therefore refuse to receive with courtesy the agent she

wishes to send to us."
"Diplomatic relations be demmed, my lord! That sly little fox

over there is nothing but a spy, I'll warrant, and you'll find--an I'm
much mistaken, that he'll concern himself little with such diplomacy,

beyond trying to do mischief to royalist refugees--to our heroic
Scarlet Pimpernel and to the members of that brave little league."

"I am sure," said the Comtesse, pursing up her thin lips,
"that if this Chauvelin wishes to do us mischief, he will find a

faithful ally in Lady Blakeney."
"Bless the woman!" ejaculated Lady Portarles, "did ever anyone

see such perversity? My Lord Grenville, you have the gift of gab,
will you please explain to Madame la Comtesse that she is acting like

a fool. In your position here in England, Madame," she added, turning
a wrathful and resolute face towards the Comtesse, "you cannot afford

to put on the hoity-toity airs you French aristocrats are so fond of.
Lady Blakeney may or may not be in sympathy with those Ruffians in

France; she may or may not have had anything to do with the arrest and
condemnation of St. Cyr, or whatever the man's name is, but she is the

leader of fashion in this country; Sir Percy Blakeney has more money
than any half-dozen other men put together, he is hand and glove with

royalty, and your trying to snub Lady Blakeney will not harm her, but
will make you look a fool. Isn't that so, my Lord?

But what Lord Grenville thought of this matter, or to what
reflections this comely tirade of Lady Portarles led the Comtesse de

Tournay, remained unspoken, for the curtain had just risen on the
third act of ORPHEUS, and admonishments to silence came from every

part of the house.
Lord Grenville took a hasty farewell of the ladies and slipped

back into his box, where M. Chauvelin had sat through this
ENTR'ACTE, with his eternal snuff-box in his hand, and with his keen

pale eyes intently fixed upon a box opposite him, where, with much
frou-frou of silken skirts, much laughter and general stir of

curiosity amongst the audience, Marguerite Blakeney had just entered,
accompanied by her husband, and looking divinely pretty beneath the

wealth of her golden, reddish curls, lightly" target="_blank" title="ad.轻微地；细长的">slightly besprinkled with powder,
and tied back at the nape of her graceful neck with a gigantic black

bow. Always dressed in the very latest vagary of fashion, Marguerite
alone among the ladies that night had discarded the crossover fichu

and broad-lapelled over-dress, which had been in fashion for the last
two or three years. She wore the short-waisted classical-shaped gown,

which so soon was to become the approved mode in every country in
Europe. It suited her graceful, regal figure to perfection, composed

as it was of shimmering stuff which seemed a mass of rich gold embroidery.
As she entered, she leant for a moment out of the box, taking

stock of all those present whom she knew. Many bowed to her as she
did so, and from the royal box there came also a quick and gracious

salute.
Chauvelin watched her intently all through the commencement of

the third act, as she sat enthralled with the music, her exquisite
little hand toying with a small jewelled fan, her regal head, her

throat, arms and neck covered with magnificent diamonds and rare gems,
the gift of the adoring husband who sprawled leisurely by her side.

Marguerite was passionately fond of music. ORPHEUS charmed
her to-night. The very joy of living was writ plainly upon the sweet

young face, it sparkled out of the merry blue eyes and lit up the
smile that lurked around the lips. She was after all but

five-and-twenty, in the hey day of youth, the darling of a brilliant
throng, adored, FETED, petted, cherished. Two days ago the DAY

DREAM had returned from Calais, bringing her news that her idolised
brother had safely landed, that he thought of her, and would be

prudent for her sake.
What wonder for the moment, and listening to Gluck's

impassioned strains, that she forgot her disillusionments, forgot her
vanished love-dreams, forgot even the lazy, good-humoured nonentity

who had made up for his lack of spiritual attainments by lavishing
worldly advantages upon her.

He had stayed beside her in the box just as long as convention
demanded, making way for His Royal Highness, and for the host of

admirers who in a continued procession came to pay homage to the queen
of fashion. Sir Percy had strolled away, to talk to more congenial

friends probably. Marguerite did not even wonder whither he had
gone--she cared so little; she had had a little court round her,

composed of the JEUNESSE DOREE of London, and had just dismissed
them all, wishing to be alone with Gluck for a brief while.

A discreet knock at the door roused her from her enjoyment.
"Come in," she said with some patience" target="_blank" title="n.不耐烦，急躁">impatience, without turning to

look at the intruder.
Chauvelin, waiting for his opportunity, noted that she was

alone, and now, without pausing for that impatient "Come in," he
quietly slipped into the box, and the next moment was standing behind

Marguerite's chair.
"A word with you, citoyenne," he said quietly.

Marguerite turned quickly, in alarm, which was not altogether
feigned.

"Lud, man! you frightened me," she said with a forced little
laugh, "your presence is entirely inopportune. I want to listen to

Gluck, and have no mind for talking."
"But this is my only opportunity," he said, as quietly, and

without waiting for permission, he drew a chair close behind her--so
close that he could whisper in her ear, without disturbing the

audience, and without being seen, in the dark background of the box.
"This is my only opportunity," he repeated, as he vouchsafed him no

reply, "Lady Blakeney is always so surrounded, so FETED by her
court, that a mere old friend has but very little chance."

"Faith, man!" she said impatiently, "you must seek for another
opportunity then. I am going to Lord Grenville's ball to-night after