ELDORADO. Emma Orczy

the scaffolds; they were irresponsible, harmless creatures who did not meddle in politics.

      Jeanne the while was gaily prattling on, her luminous eyes fixed upon the all-powerful enemy, striving to read his thoughts, to understand what went on behind those cruel, prominent eyes, the chances that Armand had of safety and of life.

      She knew, of course, that the visit was directed against Armand — some one had betrayed him, that odious de Batz mayhap — and she was fighting for Armand’s safety, for his life. Her armoury consisted of her presence of mind, her cool courage, her self-control; she used all these weapons for his sake, though at times she felt as if the strain on her nerves would snap the thread of life in her. The effort seemed more than she could bear.

      But she kept up her part, rallying Heron for the shortness of his visit, begging him to tarry for another five minutes at least, throwing out — with subtle feminine intuition — just those very hints anent little Capet’s safety that were most calculated to send him flying back towards the Temple.

      “I felt so honoured last night, citizen,” she said coquettishly, “that you even forgot little Capet in order to come and watch my debut as Celimene.”

      “Forget him!” retorted Heron, smothering a curse, “I never forget the vermin. I must go back to him; there are too many cats nosing round my mouse. Good day to you, citizeness. I ought to have brought flowers, I know; but I am a busy man — a harassed man.”

      “Je te crois,” she said with a grave nod of the head; “but do come to the theatre to-night. I am playing Camille — such a fine part! one of my greatest successes.”

      “Yes, yes, I’ll come — mayhap, mayhap — but I’ll go now — glad to have seen you, citizeness. Where does your cousin lodge?” he asked abruptly.

      “Here,” she replied boldly, on the spur of the moment.

      “Good. Let him report himself to-morrow morning at the Conciergerie, and get his certificate of safety. It is a new decree, and you should have one, too.”

      “Very well, then. Hector and I will come together, and perhaps Aunt Marie will come too. Don’t send us to maman guillotine yet awhile, citizen,” she said lightly; “you will never get such another Camille, nor yet so good a Celimene.”

      She was gay, artless to the last. She accompanied Heron to the door herself, chaffing him about his escort.

      “You are an aristo, citizen,” she said, gazing with well-feigned admiration on the two sleuth-hounds who stood in wait in the anteroom; “it makes me proud to see so many citizens at my door. Come and see me play Camille — come to-night, and don’t forget the green-room door — it will always be kept invitingly open for you.”

      She bobbed him a curtsey, and he walked out, closely followed by his two men; then at last she closed the door behind them. She stood there for a while, her ear glued against the massive panels, listening for their measured tread down the oak staircase. At last it rang more sharply against the flagstones of the courtyard below; then she was satisfied that they had gone, and went slowly back to the boudoir.