Chauvelin took another pinch of snuff: he seemed very much addicted to that pernicious habit, so prevalent in those days; perhaps, too, he found the taking of snuff a convenient veil for disguising the quick, shrewd glances with which he strove to read the very souls of those with whom he came in contact.

“No wonder,” he repeated, with the same gallantry,

“that the most active brain in Europe is troubled with ennui.”

“I was in hopes that you had a prescription against the malady, my little Chauvelin.”

“How can I hope to succeed in that which Sir Percy Blakeney has failed to accomplish?”

“Shall we leave Sir Percy out of the question for the present, my dear friend?” she said drily.

“Ah! my dear lady, pardon me, but that is just what we cannot very well do,” said Chauvelin, whilst once again his eyes, keen as those of a fox on the alert, darted a quick glance at Marguerite. “I have a most perfect prescription against the worst form of ennui, which I would have been happy to submit to you, but—”

“But what?”

“There is Sir Percy.”

“What has he to do with it?”

“Quite a good deal, I am afraid. The prescription I would offer, fair lady, is called by a very plebeian name: Work!”

“Work?”

Chauvelin looked at Marguerite long and scrutinisingly. It seemed as if those keen, pale eyes of his were reading every one of her thoughts. They were alone together; the evening air was quite still, and their soft whispers were drowned in the noise which came from the coffee-room. Still, Chauvelin took a step or two from under the porch, looked quickly and keenly all round him, then, seeing that indeed no one was within earshot, he once more came back close to Marguerite.

“Will you render France a small service, citoyenne?” he asked, with a sudden change of manner, which lent his thin, fox-like face singular earnestness.

“La, man!” she replied flippantly, “how serious you look all of a sudden…. Indeed I do not know if I would render France a small service—at any rate, it depends upon the kind of service she—or you—want.”

“Have you ever heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Citoyenne St. Just?” asked Chauvelin abruptly.

“Heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel?” she retorted with a long and merry laugh, “Faith, man! we talk of nothing else…. We have hats ‘á la Scarlet Pimpernel’; our horses are called ‘Scarlet Pimpernel’; at the Prince of Wales’ supper party the other night we had a ‘soufflè á la Scarlet Pimpernel.’ … Lud!” she added gaily, “the other day I ordered at my milliner’s a blue dress trimmed with green, and bless me, if she did not call that ‘á 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,—