“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 diplomatist 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 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 the 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 homely 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 all through this entr’acte, with his eternal snuff-box in his hand, and with his keen pale eyes intently fixed upon a box opposite to him, where, with much frou-frou of silken skirts, much laughter