The lady who had rescued Wilfrid was about twenty-five years of age, with dark hair and dark eyes. Wilfrid, who, it must not be forgotten, was an artist, contemplated her tall and graceful person with secret pleasure. He had seen only _one_ face more beautiful; and it was quite possible that if his princess and this stranger were to stand side by side, an impartial judge might have awarded the palm for beauty to the latter. She laughed with all the gaiety of a schoolgirl at the feat she had just performed. “I was a witness of your arrest,” she said, “and hurried on before you. I knew your guards would take the Nevski Prospekt, because it is the direct route to the Citadel; and I knew, too, they would take this side of the Prospekt, as being the sunnier. So I stationed François at the foot of the steps with orders to snatch you from their hands. And we have succeeded. You are safe here. The Czar and all his armies dare not enter.” “What place is this, then?” “Monsieur le vicomte,” she said, with a graceful little curtsey, “welcome to the French Embassy.” Wilfrid’s face clouded at these words. “I thank you, mademoiselle,” said he, folding his cloak around him, and taking a step towards the entrance, “but I must wish you adieu. An enemy to France, I cannot in honour accept this asylum.” “Stay a moment,” she replied, raising her forefinger with a pretty air. “There is a twofold France, royalist and republican. For which are you?” “For royalist France, undoubtedly.” “You hate Bonaparte?” “I do not love him.” “Let me whisper a secret. I hate Bonaparte; yes, that is the word—hate. Is not this a dreadful confession to come from the daughter of the Ambassador that represents him? _Mon père_ is a republican, a servant of the Consulate; but as for me—‘_Vive le roi_’ is my motto. Now, if I, a foe of the Republic, do not scruple to reside under the roof of the French Embassy, why should you not accept its hospitality, at least for a day or two?” “Will you let me see Monsieur l’Ambassadeur?” “At present he is out. He will return shortly.” “It is generous of you to offer me an asylum, but—your father may object. My presence here is certain to bring trouble upon him. The Czar will demand my surrender, and——” The young lady drew herself up proudly. “You are my guest, for I invite you here. _Mon père_ is a gentleman, and will not hand his daughter’s guest over to death merely because he has had the manliness not to kneel to a tyrant.”