She led the way across the stage towards the wooden stairs. Armand, who during this brief colloquy between his friend and the young girl had kept discreetly in the background, felt undecided what to do. But at a peremptory sign from de Batz he, too, turned in the wake of the gay little lady, who ran swiftly up the rickety steps, humming snatches of popular songs the while, and not turning to see if indeed the two men were following her.
She had the sheaf of narcissi still in her arms, and the door of her tiny dressing-room being open, she ran straight in and threw the flowers down in a confused, sweet-scented mass upon the small table that stood at one end of the room, littered with pots and bottles, letters, mirrors, powder-puffs, silk stockings, and cambric handkerchiefs.
Then she turned and faced the two men, a merry look of unalterable gaiety dancing in her eyes.
“Shut the door, mon ami,” she said to de Batz, “and after that sit down where you can, so long as it is not on my most precious pot of unguent or a box of costliest powder.”
While de Batz did as he was told, she turned to Armand and said with a pretty tone of interrogation in her melodious voice:
“Monsieur?”
“St. Just, at your service, mademoiselle,” said Armand, bowing very low in the most approved style obtaining at the English Court.
“St. Just?” she repeated, a look of puzzlement in her brown eyes. “Surely—”
“A kinsman of citizen St. Just, whom no doubt you know, mademoiselle,” he exclaimed.
“My friend Armand St. Just,” interposed de Batz, “is practically a new-comer in Paris. He lives in England habitually.”
“In England?” she exclaimed. “Oh! do tell me all about England. I would love to go there. Perhaps I may have to go some day. Oh! do sit down, de Batz,” she continued, talking rather volubly, even as a delicate blush heightened the colour in her cheeks under the look of obvious admiration from Armand St. Just’s expressive eyes.
She swept a handful of delicate cambric and silk from off a chair, making room for de Batz’ portly figure. Then she sat upon the sofa, and with an inviting gesture and a call from the eyes she bade Armand sit down next to her. She leaned back against the cushions, and the table being close by, she stretched out a hand and once more took up the bunch of narcissi, and while she talked to Armand she held the snow-white blooms quite close to her face—so close, in fact, that he could not see her mouth and chin, only her dark eyes shone across at him over the heads of the blossoms.
“Tell me all about England,” she reiterated, settling herself down among the cushions like a spoilt child who is about to listen to an oft-told favourite story.
Armand was vexed that de Batz was sitting there. He felt he could have told this dainty little lady quite a good deal about England if only his pompous, fat friend would have had the good sense to go away.
As it was, he felt unusually timid and gauche, not quite knowing what to say, a fact which seemed to amuse Mlle. Lange not a little.
“I am very fond of England,” he said lamely; “my sister is married to an Englishman, and I myself have taken up my permanent residence there.”
“Among the society of emigres?” she queried.
Then, as Armand made no reply, de Batz interposed quickly:
“Oh! you need not fear to admit it, my good Armand; Mademoiselle Lange, has many friends among the emigres—have you not, mademoiselle?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied lightly; “I have friends everywhere. Their political views have nothing to do with me. Artistes, I think, should have naught to do with politics. You see, citizen St. Just, I never inquired of you what were your views. Your name and kinship would proclaim you a partisan of citizen Robespierre, yet I find you in the company of M. de Batz; and you tell me that you live in England.”
“He is no partisan of citizen Robespierre,” again interposed de Batz; “in fact, mademoiselle, I may safely tell you, I think, that my friend has but one ideal on this earth, whom he has set up in a shrine, and whom he worships with all the ardour of a Christian for his God.”
“How romantic!” she said, and she looked straight at Armand. “Tell me, monsieur, is your ideal a woman or a man?”
His look answered her, even before he boldly spoke the two words:
“A woman.”
She took a deep draught of sweet, intoxicating scent from the narcissi, and his gaze once more brought blushes to her cheeks. De Batz’ good-humoured laugh helped her to hide this unwonted access of confusion.
“That was well turned, friend Armand,” he said lightly; “but I assure you, mademoiselle, that before I brought him here to-night his ideal was a man.”
“A man!” she exclaimed, with a contemptuous little pout. “Who was it?”
“I know no other name for him but that of a small, insignificant flower—the Scarlet Pimpernel,” replied de Batz.
“The Scarlet Pimpernel!” she ejaculated, dropping the flowers suddenly, and gazing on Armand with wide, wondering eyes. “And do you know him, monsieur?”
He was frowning despite himself, despite the delight which he felt at sitting so close to this charming little lady, and feeling that in a measure his presence and his personality interested her. But he felt irritated with de Batz, and angered at what he considered the latter’s indiscretion. To him the very name of his leader was almost a sacred one; he was one of those enthusiastic devotees who only care to name the idol of their dreams with bated breath, and only in the ears of those who would understand and sympathise.
Again he felt that if only he could have been alone with mademoiselle he could have told her all about the Scarlet Pimpernel, knowing that in her he would find a ready listener, a helping and a loving heart; but as it was he merely replied tamely enough:
“Yes, mademoiselle, I do know him.”
“You have seen him?” she queried eagerly; “spoken to him?”
“Yes.”
“Oh! do tell me all about him. You know quite a number of us in France have the greatest possible admiration for your national hero. We know, of course, that he is an enemy of our Government—but, oh! we feel that he is not an enemy of France because of that. We are a nation of heroes, too, monsieur,” she added with a pretty, proud toss of the head; “we can appreciate bravery and resource, and we love the mystery that surrounds the personality of your Scarlet Pimpernel. But since you know him, monsieur, tell me what is he like?”
Armand was smiling again. He was yielding himself up wholly to the charm which emanated from this young girl’s entire being, from her gaiety and her unaffectedness, her enthusiasm, and that obvious artistic temperament which caused her to feel every sensation with superlative keenness and thoroughness.
“What is he like?” she insisted.
“That, mademoiselle,” he replied, “I am not at liberty to tell you.”
“Not at liberty to tell me!” she exclaimed; “but monsieur, if I command you—”
“At risk of falling forever under the ban of your displeasure, mademoiselle, I would still remain silent on that subject.”
She gazed on him with obvious astonishment. It was quite an unusual thing for this spoilt darling of an admiring public to be thus openly thwarted in her whims.
“How tiresome and pedantic!” she said, with a shrug of her pretty shoulders and a moue of discontent. “And, oh! how ungallant! You have learnt ugly, English ways, monsieur; for there, I am told, men hold their womenkind in very scant esteem. There!” she added, turning with a mock air of hopelessness towards de Batz, “am I not a most unlucky woman? For the past two years I have used my best endeavours to catch sight of that interesting Scarlet Pimpernel;