"Ah!" exclaimed Theresia, in well-played mild astonishment. "You saw Bertrand Moncrif, citizen. He is in Paris, then?" "Seemingly." "Strange, he never came to see me!" "Strange, indeed!" "What does he look like? Some people have told me that he is getting fat." The discussion had now resolved itself into a duel between these two; the ruthless dictator, sure of his power, and the beautiful woman, conscious of hers. The atmosphere of the drabbily furnished room had become electrical. Every one there felt it. Every man instinctively held his breath, conscious of the quickening of his pulses, of the accelerated, beating of his heart. Both the duellists appeared perfectly calm. Of the two, in truth, Robespierre appeared the most moved. His staccato voice, the drumming of his pointed fingers upon the arms of his chair, suggested that the banter of the beautiful Theresia was getting on his nerves. It was like the lashing of a puma's tail, the irritation of a temper unaccustomed to being provoked. And Theresia was clever enough--above all, woman enough--to note that, since the dictator was moved, he could not be perfectly sure of his ground. He would not display this secret irritation if by a word he could confound his beautiful adversary, and openly threaten where now he only insinuated. "He saw Bertrand in the Rue St. Honoré," was the sum total of her quick reasoning; "but does not know that he is here. I wonder what it is he does want!" came as an afterthought. The one that really suffered throughout, and suffered acutely, was Tallien. He would have given all that he possessed to know for a certainty that Bertrand Moncrif was no longer in the house. Surely Theresia would not be foolhardy enough to provoke the powerful dictator into one of those paroxysms of spiteful fury for which he was notorious--fury wherein he might be capable of anything--insulting his hostess, setting his spies to search her apartments for a traitor if he suspected one of lying hidden away somewhere. In truth, Tallien, trembling for his beloved, was ready to swoon. How marvellous she was! how serene! While men held their breath before the inexorable despot, she went on teasing the tiger, even though he had already begun to snarl. "I entreat you, citizen Robespierre," she said, with a pout, "to tell me if Bertrand Moncrif has grown fat." "That I cannot tell you, citoyenne," Robespierre replied curtly. "Having recognised my enemy, I no longer paid heed to him. My attention was arrested by his rescuer----" "That elusive Scarlet Pimpernel," she broke in gaily. "Unrecognisable to all save to citizen Robespierre, under the disguise of an asthmatic gossoon. Ah, would I had been there!" "I would you had, citoyenne," he retorted. "You would have realised that to refuse your help to unmask an abominable spy after such an episode is tantamount to treason."