Wilfrid began to waver. Why should he not accept her invitation? Not only would he be escaping a terrible fate, but there would be in this new situation a piquant charm that appealed to his love of mischief. He pictured the First Consul’s rage on learning that the Englishman who had defied him to his face, slain his fencing-master, and defeated his policy at Berlin, had now put the finishing touch to his audacity by taking refuge for a few days under the very roof of the French Embassy! “It will turn his hair grey,” thought Wilfrid. “Come, you must not go from here. Will you deprive me of your society, when I have been expecting it these many days?” “The deuce you have,” thought Wilfrid. The young lady here drew forth a letter, and directed Wilfrid’s attention to the signature, “Louisa R.” “Do you know this handwriting?” she asked. “I think I recognise the autograph signature of my friend, the Queen of Prussia.” “As children we were friends together,” said the Ambassador’s daughter, “and though our lives now lie far apart, we still correspond with each other. In this letter she bids me exercise surveillance over a favourite knight of hers, Lord Courtenay, now on his way to Russia; for, to quote her very words, ‘If I have rightly gauged his character, he will not be twenty-four hours in St. Petersburg without coming into collision with the authorities.’ See how excellently she has judged you,” smiled the young lady, as she folded up the letter and put it away. “You haven’t been a day in the capital, and yet you have already got, as you English say, into hot water. The good queen having charged me to watch over you, it is my intention to fulfil the trust.” Her smile was so arch and her manner altogether so charming that Wilfrid could no longer resist. He would accept her hospitality, conditional, of course, on its being sanctioned by her father, the Ambassador. “That is well,” said the young lady on hearing his decision. She now informally introduced herself as Pauline de Vaucluse, daughter of Henrion, the Marquis de Vaucluse. “But you mustn’t give him his title,” she added. “He is a _çi-devant_, that is, an ex-noble, a Republican. He has dropped the ‘_de_,’ and must be addressed as Citoyen Henrion.” “And you are the Citoyenne Pauline,” smiled Wilfrid. “My faith, no!” replied the young lady, with a flash of energy. “I am the Baroness de Runö in my own right; and claim the title due to my rank.” Then, turning to Wilfrid’s rescuer, who, during this dialogue, had been standing near by, but out of earshot, she said, “François, conduct Viscount Courtenay to the Porphyry Suite. My lord,” she added, with a graceful inclination of her head, “I hope to see you again within half an hour.” “Truly, my lines have fallen in pleasant places,” thought Wilfrid, as he followed François to the apartments assigned him. CHAPTER VIII A CHARMING TÊTE-À-TÊTE