Life was beautiful, and in the soul of these two human creatures there was perfect peace, almost perfect happiness.
With one grasp of the hand they had sought and found one another's soul.
What mattered the yelling crowd, the noise and tumult of this sordid world?
They had found one another, and, hand-in-hand, shoulder-to-shoulder, they had gone off wandering into the land of dreams, where dwelt neither doubt nor treachery, where there was nothing to forgive.
He no longer said: "She does not love me--would she have betrayed me else ?" He felt the clinging, trustful touch of her hand, and knew that, with all her faults, her great sin and her lasting sorrow, her woman's heart, Heaven's most priceless treasure, was indeed truly his.
And she knew that he had forgiven--nay, that he had naught to forgive -- for Love is sweet and tender, and judges not.

Love is Love--whole, trustful, passionate.

Love is perfect understanding and perfect peace.
And so they followed their escort whithersoever it chose to lead them.
Their eyes wandered aimlessly over the mist-laden landscape of this portion of deserted Paris.

They had turned away from the river now, and were following the Rue des Arts.

Close by on the right was the dismal little hostelry, "La Cruche Cassee," where Sir Percy Blakeney lived.
Deroulede, as they neared the place, caught himself vaguely wondering what had become of his English friend.
But it would take more than the ingenuity of the Scarlet Pimpernel to get two noted prisoners out of Paris to-day.