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class="toc"> CHAPTER IX. WHAT LOVE CAN DO

CHAPTER X. SHADOWS

CHAPTER XI. THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL

CHAPTER XII. WHAT LOVE IS

CHAPTER XIII. THEN EVERYTHING WAS DARK

CHAPTER XIV. THE CHIEF

CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE

CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH

CHAPTER XVII. CHAUVELIN

CHAPTER XVIII. THE REMOVAL

CHAPTER XIX. IT IS ABOUT THE DAUPHIN

CHAPTER XX. THE CERTIFICATE OF SAFETY

CHAPTER XXI. BACK TO PARIS

CHAPTER XXII. OF THAT THERE COULD BE NO QUESTION

CHAPTER XXIII. THE OVERWHELMING ODDS


PART II.

CHAPTER XXIV. THE NEWS

CHAPTER XXV. PARIS ONCE MORE

CHAPTER XXVI. THE BITTEREST FOE

CHAPTER XXVII. IN THE CONCIERGERIE

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE CAGED LION

CHAPTER XXIX. FOR THE SAKE OF THAT HELPLESS INNOCENT

CHAPTER XXX. AFTERWARDS

CHAPTER XXXI. AN INTERLUDE

CHAPTER XXXII. SISTERS

CHAPTER XXXIII. LITTLE MOTHER

CHAPTER XXXIV. THE LETTER


PART III.

CHAPTER XXXV. THE LAST PHASE

CHAPTER XXXVI. SUBMISSION

CHAPTER XXXVII. CHAUVELIN’S ADVICE

CHAPTER XXXVIII. CAPITULATION

CHAPTER XXXIX. KILL HIM!

CHAPTER XL. GOD HELP US ALL

CHAPTER XLI. WHEN HOPE WAS DEAD

CHAPTER XLII. THE GUARD-HOUSE OF THE RUE STE. ANNE

CHAPTER XLIII. THE DREARY JOURNEY

CHAPTER XLIV. THE HALT AT CRECY

CHAPTER XLV. THE FOREST OF BOULOGNE

CHAPTER XLVI. OTHERS IN THE PARK

CHAPTER XLVII. THE CHAPEL OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE

CHAPTER XLVIII. THE WANING MOON

CHAPTER XLIX. THE LAND OF ELDORADO





PART I.





CHAPTER I. IN THE THEATRE NATIONAL

And yet people found the opportunity to amuse themselves, to dance and to go to the theatre, to enjoy music and open-air cafes and promenades in the Palais Royal.

New fashions in dress made their appearance, milliners produced fresh “creations,” and jewellers were not idle. A grim sense of humour, born of the very intensity of ever-present danger, had dubbed the cut of certain tunics “tete tranche,” or a favourite ragout was called “a la guillotine.”

On three evenings only during the past memorable four and a half years did the theatres close their doors, and these evenings were the ones immediately following that terrible 2nd of September the day of the butchery outside the Abbaye prison, when Paris herself was aghast with horror, and the cries of the massacred might have drowned the calls of the audience whose hands upraised for plaudits would still be dripping with blood.

On all other evenings of these same four and a half years the theatres in the Rue de Richelieu, in the Palais Royal, the Luxembourg, and others, had raised their curtains and taken money at their doors. The same audience that earlier in the day had whiled away the time by witnessing the ever-recurrent dramas of the Place de la Revolution assembled here in the evenings and filled stalls, boxes, and tiers, laughing over the satires of Voltaire or weeping over the sentimental tragedies of persecuted Romeos and innocent Juliets.

Death knocked at so many doors these days! He was so constant a guest in the houses of relatives and friends that those who had merely shaken him by the hand, those on whom he had smiled, and whom he, still smiling, had passed indulgently by, looked on him with that subtle contempt born of familiarity, shrugged their shoulders at his passage, and envisaged his probable visit on the morrow with lighthearted indifference.

Paris—despite the horrors that had stained her walls had remained a city of pleasure, and the knife of the guillotine did scarce descend more often than did the drop-scenes on the stage.

On this bitterly cold evening of the 27th Nivose, in the second year of the Republic—or, as we of the

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