misgivings: she had conquered her mistrust, at any rate had relegated
it to the background of her mind. This woman was a colleague: she
had suffered and was in distress; she had every claim, therefore, on a
compatriot's help and friendship. She stretched out her hand and took
Desiree Candeille's in her own; she forced herself to feel nothing but
admiration for this young woman, whose whole attitude spoke of
sorrows nobly borne, of misfortunes proudly endured.

"I don't know why I should sadden you with my story," rejoined
Desiree Candeille after a slight pause, during which she seemed to be
waging war against her own emotion. "It is not a very interesting one.
Hundreds have suffered as I did. I had enemies in Paris. God knows
how that happened. I had never harmed anyone, but someone must
have hated me and must have wished me ill. Evil is so easily wrought
in France these days. A denunciation --a perquisition--an accusation--
then the flight from Paris ... the forged passports ... the disguise ... the
bribe ... the hardships ... the squalid hiding places. ... Oh! I have gone
through it all ... tasted every kind of humiliation ... endured every
kind of insult. ... Remember! that I was not a noble aristocrat ... a
Duchess or an impoverished Countess ..." she added with marked
bitterness, "or perhaps the English cavaliers whom the popular voice
has called the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel would have taken
some interest in me. I was only a poor actress and had to find my way
out of France alone, or else perish on the guillotine."

"I am so sorry!" said Marguerite simply.

"Tell me how you got on, once you were in England," she continued
after a while, seeing that Desiree Candeille seemed absorbed in
thought.