Aunt Marie came in at last, carrying the lamp. She found them sittingside by side, like two children, hand in hand, mute with the eloquencewhich comes from boundless love. They were under a spell, forgettingeven that they lived, knowing nothing except that they loved.
The lamp broke the spell, and Aunt Marie's still trembling voice:
"Oh, my dear! how did you manage to rid yourself of those brutes?"
But she asked no other question, even when the lamp showed up quiteclearly the glowing cheeks of Jeanne and the ardent eyes of Armand. Inher heart, long since atrophied, there were a few memories, carefullyput away in a secret cell, and those memories caused the old woman tounderstand.
Neither Jeanne nor Armand noticed what she did; the spell had beenbroken, but the dream lingered on; they did not see Aunt Marie puttingthe room tidy, and then quietly tiptoeing out by the door.
But through the dream, reality was struggling for recognition. AfterArmand had asked for the hundredth time: "Tu m'aimes?" and Jeanne forthe hundredth time had replied mutely with her eyes, her fears for himsuddenly returned.
Something had awakened her from her trance--a heavy footstep, mayhap, inthe street below, the distant roll of a drum, or only the clash of steelsaucepans in Aunt Marie's kitchen. But suddenly Jeanne was alert, andwith her alertness came terror for the beloved.
"Your life," she said--for he had called her his life just then, "yourlife--and I was forgetting that it is still in danger... your dear, yourprecious life!"
"Doubly dear now," he replied, "since I owe it to you."
"Then I pray you, I entreat you, guard it well for my sake--make allhaste to leave Paris... oh, this I beg of you!" she continued moreearnestly, seeing the look of demur in his eyes; "every hour you spendin it brings danger nearer to your door."
"I could not leave Paris while you are here."
"But I am safe here," she urged; "quite, quite safe, I assure you. I amonly a poor actress, and the Government takes no heed of us mimes.Men must be amused, even between the intervals of killing one another.Indeed, indeed, I should be far safer here now, waiting quietly forawhile, while you make preparations to go... My hasty departure at thismoment would bring disaster on us both."
There was logic in what she said. And yet how could he leave her? nowthat he had found this perfect woman--this realisation of his highestideals, how could he go and leave her in this awful Paris, with bruteslike Heron forcing their hideous personality into her sacred presence,threatening that very life he would gladly give his own to keepinviolate?
"Listen, sweetheart," he said after awhile, when presently reasonstruggled back for first place in his mind. "Will you allow me toconsult with my chief, with the Scarlet Pimpernel, who is in Paris atthe present moment? I am under his orders; I could not leave France justnow. My life, my entire person are at his disposal. I and my comradesare here under his orders, for a great undertaking which he has not yetunfolded to us, but which I firmly believe is framed for the rescue ofthe Dauphin from the Temple."
She gave an involuntary exclamation of horror.
"No, no!" she said quickly and earnestly; "as far as you are concerned,Armand, that has now become an impossibility. Some one has betrayed you,and you are henceforth a marked man. I think that odious de Batz had ahand in Heron's visit of this afternoon. We succeeded in putting thesespies off the scent, but only for a moment... within a few hours--lessperhaps--Heron will repent him of his carelessness; he'll come back--Iknow that he will come back. He may leave me, personally, alone; buthe will be on your track; he'll drag you to the Conciergerie to reportyourself, and there your true name and history are bound to come tolight. If you succeed in evading him, he will still be on your track. Ifthe Scarlet Pimpernel keeps you in Paris now, your death will be at hisdoor."
Her voice had become quite hard and trenchant as she said these lastwords; womanlike, she was already prepared to hate the man whosemysterious personality she had hitherto admired, now that the life andsafety of Armand appeared to depend on the will of that elusive hero.
"You must not be afraid for me, Jeanne," he urged. "The ScarletPimpernel cares for all his followers; he would never allow me to rununnecessary risks."
She was unconvinced, almost jealous now of his enthusiasm for thatunknown man. Already she had taken full possession of Armand; she hadpurchased his life, and he had given her his love. She would shareneither treasure with that nameless leader who held Armand's allegiance.
"It is only for a little while, sweetheart," he reiterated again andagain. "I could not, anyhow, leave Paris whilst I feel that you arehere, maybe in danger. The thought would be horrible. I should go mad ifI had to leave you."
Then he talked again of England, of his life there, of the happiness andpeace that were in store for them both.
"We will go to England together," he whispered, "and there we will behappy together, you and I. We will have a tiny house among the Kentishhills, and its walls will be covered with honeysuckle and roses. Atthe back of the house there will be an orchard, and in May, when thefruit-blossom is fading and soft spring breezes blow among the trees,showers of sweet-scented petals will envelop us as we walk along,falling on us like fragrant snow. You will come, sweetheart, will younot?"
"If you still wish it, Armand," she murmured.
Still wish it! He would gladly go to-morrow if she would come with him.But, of course, that could not be arranged. She had her contract tofulfil at the theatre, then there would be her house and furniture todispose of, and there was Aunt Marie.... But, of course, Aunt Mariewould come too.... She thought that she could get away some time beforethe spring; and he swore that he could not leave Paris until she camewith him.
It seemed a terrible deadlock, for she could not bear to think of himalone in those awful Paris streets, where she knew that spies wouldalways be tracking him. She had no illusions as to the impression whichshe had made on Heron; she knew that it could only be a momentary one,and that Armand would henceforth be in daily, hourly danger.
At last she promised him that she would take the advice of his chief;they would both be guided by what he said. Armand would confide inhim to-night, and if it could be arranged she would hurry on herpreparations and, mayhap, be ready to join him in a week.
"In the meanwhile, that cruel man must not risk your dear life," shesaid. "Remember, Armand, your life belongs to me. Oh, I could hate himfor the love you bear him!"
"Sh--sh--sh!" he said earnestly. "Dear heart, you must not speak likethat of the man whom, next to your perfect self, I love most uponearth."
"You think of him more than of me. I shall scarce live until I know thatyou are safely out of Paris."
Though it was horrible to part, yet it was best, perhaps, that he shouldgo back to his lodgings now, in case Heron sent his spies back to herdoor, and since he meant to consult with his chief. She had a vague hopethat if the mysterious hero was indeed the noble-hearted man whom Armandrepresented him to be, surely he would take compassion on the anxiety ofa sorrowing woman, and release the man she loved from bondage.
This thought pleased her and gave her hope. She even urged Armand now togo.
"When may I see you to-morrow?" he asked.
"But it will be so dangerous to meet," she argued.
"I must see you. I could not live through the day without seeing you."
"The theatre is the safest place."
"I could not wait till the evening. May I not come here?"
"No, no. Heron's spies may be about."
"Where then?"
She thought it over for a moment.
"At the stage-door of the theatre at one o'clock," she said at last. "Weshall have finished rehearsal. Slip into the guichet of the concierge.I will tell him to admit you, and send my dresser to meet you there; shewill bring you along to my room, where we shall be undisturbed for atleast half an hour."
He had perforce to be content with that, though he would so much ratherhave seen her here again, where the faded tapestries and so
ft-tonedhangings made such a perfect background for her delicate charm. He hadevery intention of confiding in Blakeney, and of asking his help forgetting Jeanne out of Paris as quickly as may be.
Thus this perfect hour was past; the most pure, the fullest of joy thatthese two young people were ever destined to know. Perhaps they feltwithin themselves the consciousness that their great love would riseanon to yet greater, fuller perfection when Fate had crowned it withhis halo of sorrow. Perhaps, too, it was that consciousness that gave totheir kisses now the solemnity of a last farewell.