Sylvia Justinian makes an effort to quiet her racing pulse, then racks her brains.  Her young interpreter, Brigitte Carfax, watches the older woman intently, waiting for guidance as they start off toward the prison.
    "Vous savez..."  (You know...)  she begins, quite suddenly.
   "Quoi?  Tu as une idée?"  (What?  You have an idea?)
   "Oui et non."
   Sylvia sighs.  "C'est mieux que rien du tout.  Parlez."  (It's better than nothing at all.  Talk.)
   "Vous savez l'actrice, qui a joué Juliet en '91?"  (You know that actress, who played Juliet in '91?)
   "Oui, un petit peu.  Il y a trois ans, mais oui."  (Yes, a little bit.  It was three years ago, but yes.)
   "Avec un peu de maquillage--"  (With a little makeup--)
.    "Hé, un moment.  Tu penses que je lui ressemble?"  (Wait one moment.  You think I look like her?)
   "Pourquoi pas?"  (Why not?)
Sylvia smiles a little, then turns to Lady Hastings.
 "Madame, vous avez la maquillage pour nous déguiser?"  (Do you have makeup so we can disguise ouselves?)
   Brigitte translates, and Lady Hastings smiles slightly.  "I have a little, my dear Sylvia.....what do you have in mind?"
   "J'ai une idée...  je peux devenir une personne qui les gendarmes au prison doit prendre son parti."  (I have an idea... I can become someone who the men at the prison will have to accept...)
     Lady Hastings raises one eyebrow.
   Sylvia takes a stick of greasepaint and, using a calm puddle in the street, begins to work on her face.  After a moment she turns triumphantly on one heel.  
   "Voila Marguerite St. Just!"
   The cry--a disarming imitation of Marguerite Blakeney's voice--comes seemingly out of nowhere, startling Paul Chauvelin and his men.     
 "Marguerite?"  he says, slowly.
   "Oui, Paul--j'ai--je dois--"  (Yes, Paul--I have--I must--)
Sylvia Justinian, now dressed and made up as a dead ringer for Sir Percy's young French wife, stumbles towards Chauvelin and collapses at his feet.
   He stoops and lifts her by the shoulders.  "Marguerite?  Are you--all right?"
   "Oui," she pants.  "Paul--je dois parler avec toi..."  (Paul--I have to talk to you...)
   "What--"  He suddenly realizes she doesn't _want_ to switch to English, and draws her aside as she stands up.  "Marguerite, je pensais--"  (Marguerite, I thought--)
   "Il n'y a pas de temps."  (There's no time.)
 Deftly switching to the English Lady Eliza and Brigitte taught her, she continues:  "It is Percy--he has deserted me--he has gone mad!"
   "Why are you telling me this?"
   "You are the only friend I have in Paris," Sylvia says, her grasp on English suddenly seeming to grow stronger.  "My brother--he is back in England--he could not come soon enough--and Percy threatens to kill me!"
   Chauvelin's face grows dark.  "How do I know you tell the truth?"    
Sylvia yanks open her collar to reveal a series of long, ugly welts across her neck, shoulders and left arm.    
"Do these lie?"  she asks, accusingly.    
Chauvelin draws back a little.    
"Why would he--?"    
"It was--he thought I was not faithful.  He is trying to follow me, to punish me more--please, I beg of you, help me--"  She breaks down in tears.      
He frowns.  "Marguerite, you and your husband have both decieved me..."    
"Paul, _please_... I need you..."    
He's silent for a very long moment.  Then, suddenly, he calls to his men--
"Stand away, the Englishman is only seeking his lady."    
The men break up; some of them wander away.  "Marguerite" takes Chauvelin's arm and draws him away a few paces.    
"Paul, I must tell you something."    
"Yes?"    She looks up into his face, tenderly strokes his cheek... and then, with all her might, shoves him into a nearby cell and slams the bolt down.  As soon as she hears the sharp BANG of the bolt falling into place, she tears off running out of the prison and through the streets, narrowly avoiding the guards who pursue her.
    At last, she reaches the appointed rendezvous where Lady Eliza and her young interpreter wait for her.
"C'est fini," she smiles, and collapses of exhaustion. *  *   *

Letter from Percy Blakeney to Marguerite St. Just Blakeney, dated the night of the rescue
   My dearest heart,
      I return to England within a few days.  Chauvelin is on the prowl and we must lie low for a while.
   The rescue last night had the strangest culmination one could possibly imagine.  We were on our way to the prison, when suddenly I heard an angry shout--and saw a woman who looked almost exactly like you go running down the street as fast as her legs could carry her, pursued by several Revolutionary guards!  For a moment I was decieved, and my men and I engaged them with our swords, but once they were defeated I found that the beautiful specter had vanished.  
   It was a good thing the image appeared to us, too--just a half hour ago I found out that the men we were to rescue had already been safely removed from Paris, and that Chauvelin and his brute squad were lying in wait at the prison for us.  If you--if she--had not warned us in time, your dear husband might now be languishing in the clutches of the Revolutionary fiend now.
   So I leave it to you to find some sort of explanation, since it was your form I saw darting through the streets, my angel--was she a ghost?  did you send your spirit abroad to warn me?  or was it merely a trick of my brain, starved as I am to feel your touch and see your lovely face again?

      I send you all the love of my soul, 
         And until I see you again, believe me to be
            Your most faithful and loving husband,

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