“What dreadful people they have become,” she said, shuddering; “even I can remember how different they used to be.”

The houses on the banks of the river were mostly converted into hospitals, preparatory for the great siege.  Some hundred metres lower down, the new children’s hospital, endowed by Citizen-Deputy Deroulede, loomed, white, clean, and comfortable-looking, amidst its more squalid fellows.

“I think it would be best not to sit down,” suggested Blakeney, “and wiser for you to throw your hood away from your face.”

He seemed to have no fears for himself; many had said that he bore a charmed life; and yet ever since Admiral Hood had planted his flag on Toulon Arsenal, the English were more feared than ever, and The Scarlet Pimpernel more hated than most.

“You wished to speak to me about Paul Deroulede,” he said kindly, seeing that the young girl was making desperate efforts to say what lay on her mind.  “He is my friend, you know.”

“Yes; that is why I wished to ask you a question,” she replied.

“What is it?”

“Who is Juliette de Marny, and why did she seek an entrance into Paul’s house?”

“Did she seek it, then?”

“Yes; I saw the scene from the balcony.  At the time it did not strike me as a farce.  I merely thought that she had been stupid and foolhardy.  But since then I have reflected.  She provoked the mob of the street, wilfully, just at the very moment when she reached M. Deroulede’s door.  She meant to appeal to his chivalry, and called for help, well knowing that he would respond.”

She spoke rapidly and excitedly now, throwing off all shyness and reserve.  Blakeney was forced to check her vehemence, which might have been thought “suspicious” by some idle citizen unpleasantly inclined.

“Well?  And now?” he asked, for the young girl had paused, as if ashamed of her excitement.

“And now she stays in the house, on and on, day after day,” continued Anne Mie, speaking more quietly, though with no less intensity.  “Why does she not go?  She is not safe in France.  She belongs to the most hated of all the classes—­the idle, rich aristocrats of the old regime.  Paul has several times suggested plans for her emigration to England.  Madame Deroulede, who is an angel, loves her, and would not like to part from her, but it would be obviously wiser for her to go, and yet she stays.  Why?”

“Presumably because...”

“Because she is in love with Paul?” interrupted Anne Mie vehemently.  “No, no; she does not love him—­at least—­Oh! sometimes I don’t know.  Her eyes light up when he comes, and she is listless when he goes.  She always spends a longer time over her toilet, when we expect him home to dinner,” she added, with a touch of naive femininity.  “But—­ if it be love, then that love is strange and unwomanly; it is a love that will not be for his good...”

“Why should you think that?”