"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
'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 I
ordered 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.
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