"That young Marquis was a fool not have got away before now."

"He wouldn't hear of it. You know their ways. They are all alike. Some of them quite fine fellows, but they have not yet learned to accept the inevitable, and the women, poor dears, have no influence over their menfolk."

"Then we are going up to La Rodière with the crowd, I take it," Lord Hastings observed.

"Certainly we are."

"You haven't forgotten, Percy, by any chance . . .?" Sir Andrew suggested.

"I think not. You mean, my dear friend Monsieur Chambertin, beg pardon, Chauvelin?" Blakeney rejoined gaily. "No, by gad, I had not forgotten him. I am pining for his agreeable society. I wonder now whether during his last stay in London he has learned how to tie his cravat as a gentleman should."

"Percy! will you be . . ." Lord Tony hazarded.

"Careful, was the word you were going to say, eh, Tony? Of course, I won't be careful, but I give you my word that my friend Chambertin is not going to get me--not this time."

A soft look stole into his deep-set eyes. It seemed as if he had seen a vision of his exquisite wife Marguerite wandering lonely and anxious, in her garden at Richmond waiting for him, her husband and lover, who was her one absorbing thought, whilst he . . . She too was his absorbing thought, the great thought, that filled his mind and warmed his heart: but it was not all-absorbing. Foremost in his mind were all those innocents, little children, men and women, young and old who, unknown to themselves seemed to call to him, to stretch out imploring arms towards him for comfort and for help: those were the moments when Marguerite's lovely face appeared blurred by the rain of tears shed in devastated homes and inside prison walls, and when he, the adoring husband and devoted lover, dismissed with a sigh of longing, all thoughts of holding her in his arms.

Such a moment was the present one, when the name of his deadly enemy recalled as on a transient picture, his life of happiness and of ease in England: the garden at Richmond, his beautiful wife, the many friends, and a sigh of longing for it all came involuntarily to his lips. But the moment was very brief. A few seconds only went by, and Sir Percy Blakeney was once more the Scarlet Pimpernel, the man of action and of heroic self-sacrifice, the leader with so forceful a personality that he was able to hold nineteen men to his will, obedient to his commands, ready to face every kind of danger, even to meet death at a word from him.

"And now," he said, his voice perfectly firm and incisive, "it is time that we collected our goods and saw whether our friends down at Choisy are ready for the fight."

They set to, to collect their musical instruments, their fiddles and drums and trumpets. Just for a moment the glamour of the coming adventure faded before one hideous fear of which not one of them had ever spoken yet, but which troubled them all.

Blakeney was humming the tune of the "Marseillaise."

"I wish I could remember the words of the demmed thing," he said. "What comes after: 'Aux armes, citoyens! ?' Ffoulkes, you ought to know."

Sir Andrew replied almost gruffly: "I don't," and Lord Tony called suddenly to his chief:

"Percy."

"Yes! What is it?"

"That fellow, Devinne . . ."

"What about him?"

"You don't trust him, do you?"

"The son of old Gery Rudford, the straightest rider to hounds I ever knew? Of course I trust him."

"I wish you wouldn't," Hastings put in.

"The father may have been a sportsman," Glynde added; "the son certainly is not."

"Don't say that, my dear fellow," Blakeney rejoined; "it sounds like treason to the rest of us. The boy is all right. Just mad with jealousy, that's all. He has offended his lady love and she will have nothing more to do with him. I dare say he is sorry that he behaved quite so badly the other morning. I'll admit that he did behave like a cad. He is only a boy, and jealousy . . . well! we know what a bad counsellor jealousy can be. But between that and doing what you all have in your minds . . . Egad! I'll not believe it!"

Hastings murmured savagely: "He'd better not."

Sir Philip Glynde nearly punched a hole in the drum, trying to express his feelings, and Lord Tony muttered a murderous oath. Sir Andrew alone said nothing. He knew-they all did, in fact-that Blakeney was one of those men who are so absolutely loyal and straight, that they simply cannot conceive treachery in a friend. Not one of them trusted Devinne. It was all very well making allowances for a boy thwarted in love, but there had been an expression in this one's face which suggested something more sinister than petty jealousy, and though nothing more was said at the moment, they all registered a vow to keep a close eye on his movements until this adventure in Choisy, which promised to be so exciting, had come to a successful issue, and they were all back in England once more, when they hoped to enlist Lady Blakeney's support in persuading Percy not to rely on young Devinne again.

20 A LIKELY ALLY

Heavy hearted and still sullen and rebellious, St. John Devinne, familiarly known as Johnny, made his way through the town to the Levets' house. All sorts of wild schemes chased one another through his brain, schemes which had the one main objective in view to see Cécile de la Rodière, and, by giving her and her family warning of the mischief contemplated against them by the rabble of Choisy, to worm himself once more into her good graces and regain the love which he had forfeited so foolishly. Indeed, he had every hope of achieving this happy state of things through the fact that it was obviously Simon Pradel who had inflamed the temper of his fellow-citizens, by posing as the heroic victim of his own political opinions. Devinne himself was so convinced of Pradel's rôle in the affair, that he did not think he would have the slightest difficulty in persuading even Cécile that that abominable doctor was the instigator of all the coming trouble, in order to be revenged on her bother for the well-deserved thrashing which he had received.

Chance has a very funny way of shuffling the cards in the game of life. Here were two men, Louis Maurin, the French lawyer, and Lord St. John Devinne, son of an English Duke, both deadly enemies of Simon Pradel, the local doctor, who hardly knew either of them but who was looked upon by both as a serious rival to their love, a rival who must incontinently be swept out of the way. Maurin desired his moral and physical downfall in order to find his way clear for the wooing of Blanche Levet, whilst Devinne had reluctantly come to the conclusion that Cécile de la Rodière had so far demeaned herself as to fall in love with the fellow. She certainly had turned her back on him,

Devinne, ever since that fatal morning, and unless he now took strong measures on his own behalf, he might lose all chance of ever winning her.

These thoughts, as well as certain contumacious ones against the discipline imposed on him by "the chief," kept the young man's mind busy while he made his way through the town. Snow was falling in thin flakes: it was very cold, and there were few people about. It was then just past twelve o'clock: at half-past the workers in the government factory would be coming out and cafés and restaurants would soon be filled to overcrowding.

The new calendar with its Sans-Culottides, its Republican years and its Décadis, had not yet been evolved, and this was still Sunday-not a Christian Sunday, surely, but just a Day of Rest, with factories closed in the afternoon and hours during which paid agitators and government spies could find work for idle hands to do and thoughts of mischief for empty heads to plan. Devinne hurried along, hoping to deliver his message at the Levets and be well on the way to La Rodière before the crowd had been stirred into an organised march on the château. He pulled the collar of his greatcoat up to his ears and his had down to meet it, for the wind blowing right across the Grand' Place was cutting. At the angle of the Rue Verte he suddenly became aware of the man who at the moment was foremost in his thoughts. Simon Pradel was standing at the corner of the street, talking to a girl whose head was swathed in a shawl. Devinne thought that in her he recognized Levet's daughter, whom he had once seen at the château. She was talking heatedly and appeared distressed, for her voice shook as she spoke, and she had one hand on Pradel's arm as if she were either entreating or restraining him. As he went past them, Devinne heard the girl say: