not understand."

"You think that I am at this moment taking measures for sending the
Scarlet Pimpernel to the guillotine? Eh?"

"I do."

"Never was so great an error committed by a clever woman. Your ladyship
must believe me when I say that the guillotine is the very last place
in the world where I would wish to see that enigmatic and elusive
personage."

"Are you trying to fool me, M. Chauvelin? If so, for what purpose? And
why do you lie to me like that?"

"On my honour, 'tis the truth. The death of Sir Percy Blakeney--I may
call him that, may I not?--would ill suit the purpose which I have in
view."

"What purpose? You must pardon me, Monsieur Chauvelin," she added with
a quick, impatient sigh, "but of a truth I am getting confused, and my
wits must have become dull in the past few days. I pray to you to add
to your many protestations of friendship a little more clearness in your
speech and, if possible, a little more brevity. What then is the purpose
which you had in view when you enticed my husband to come over to
France?"

"My purpose was the destruction of the Scarlet Pimpernel, not the death
of Sir Percy Blakeney. Believe me, I have a great regard for Sir Percy.
He is a most accomplished gentleman, witty, brilliant, an inimitable
dandy. Why should he not grace with his presence the drawing-rooms of
London or of Brighton for many years to come?"

She looked at him with puzzled inquiry. For one moment the thought
flashed through her mind that, after all, Chauvelin might be still in
doubt as to the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel.... But no! that hope
was madness.... It was preposterous and impossible.... But then, why?
why? why?... Oh God! for a little more patience!

"What I have just said may seem a little enigmatic to your ladyship," he
continued blandly, "but surely so clever a woman as yourself, so great
a lady as is the wife of Sir Percy Blakeney, Baronet, will be aware
that there are other means of destroying an enemy than the taking of his
life."

"For instance, Monsieur Chauvelin?"

"There is the destruction of his honour," he replied slowly.

A long, bitter laugh, almost hysterical in its loud outburst, broke from
the very depths of Marguerite's convulsed heart.

"The destruction of his honour!... ha! ha! ha! ha!... of a truth,
Monsieur Chauvelin, your inventive powers have led you beyond the bounds
of dreamland!... Ha! ha! ha! ha!... It is in the land of madness
that you are wanderi