The details of subsequent events are somewhat more difficult to piece together. Sir Percy Blakeney's diaries are a blank, neither do the few odd scraps from letters that have been preserved give us anything very definite to build upon.

Nor are the writings by various other members of the League of any help. They were all under oath not to divulge anything connected with the League, and the last thing they would have done, in any case, would be to put pen to paper.

One thing, however, is pretty certain, and that is that even before the terrible holocaust of innocent and defenseless people, known as the Massacre de 2 Septembre, took place -- an event full of unspeakable horrors, in which the League of the Pimpernel performed more than one heroic act of rescue -- the rumour had got about Paris that a band of English spies were carrying on anti-revolutionary activities in the city. These activities, it was said, took the form of helping certain traitors who had conspired against the State to escape just punishment; and these escapes were often carried out in a manner verging on the miraculous.

Passports bearing forged signatures were constantly presented at the gates of the city, deceiving some of the most astute officers in command. Some of these officers had been arraigned for treason, for slackness in the service of the State; more than one had been condemned to death, but all to no avail, escapes by condemned prisoners or persons under suspicion were becoming more and more frequent as time went on. Sometimes it would be an entire family of aristocrats, at others a few wretched nuns who clung to their superstitious belief in God -- priests, artists, or men and women of the servant class. The English spies did not seem to select their accomplices -- that is what they were called -- more in one class than in another.

And soon these rumours grew to extravagance. The English spies, it was said, were seemingly under the leadership of one who was possessed of supernatural powers. His audacity was fabulous. Strange stories were told how he and a band of traitors whom he had rescued from prison had suddenly become invisible when they reached the gates of the city, and were thus able to get clean away through the intervention of the devil. As a matter of fact, no one had seen those mysterious Englishmen. No one knew who they were. As for their leader, he was never spoken of except with a shudder. Was he tall? Was he short? No one could tell. Was he dark, fair, black, white, red-haired? No one knew. The spies were in the city one day and had vanished the next. They slipped in and out of Paris, unseen and unharmed. It was even said that should one of them be trapped, his identity would still remain unknown; and that there would be ten, nay, a hundred more of them, ready to take their unfortunate comrade's place! All of which was utterly incomprehensible to the bulk of the people.

Citizen Fouquier-Tinville -- the newly-appointed Public Prosecutor -- would in the course of the day receive a scrap of paper from some mysterious source, sometimes he would find it in the pocket of his coat or among the official documents on his desk; or, again, someone in the crowd would thrust the paper into his hand and immediately be lost to view. And the paper always bore the same inscription, with the same dreaded message a brief note to the effect that such and such a traitor recently arrested, or even condemned to death, was on his way to England; and it was always signed in the same way, with a device drawn in red -- a little star-shaped flower called, in French, le mouron rouge.

The guard at the gates had been doubled; the soldiers in charge had been threatened with death; rewards had been offered for the capture of the mysterious Englishman, dead or alive; vigilance committees composed of the most reliable and patriotic republicans in the land, were set up to watch and to make reports. All in vain; the escapes continued unchecked.

And presently these rumours, which at first had only circulated among the general public, reached the ears of some of the more prominent members of the National Assembly and thence those of members of the Government. Paris was growling and demanding an explanation. If something was not done quickly those growls would turn to threats, and those who ruled by terror would find themselves terrorized in their turn.

In the privacy of a room in the Palais de Justice -- and here we come to facts recorded in the official sheets of the period -- Fouquier-Tinville faced a turbulent assembly. Questions were hurled at him, fists brandished in his face, curses and insults spat at him. What was to be done? How to unearth this nest of English hornets and extract their sting? That was the problem. And a difficult problem it would be to solve. How? When? Where? An answer to these seemed impossible. The spies were here, there and everywhere. Here to-day and gone to-morrow. They were in the Conciergerie, they were on the Place de la Revolution, on the Carrousel, they were at the city gates. And no one knew whom to look for, whom to watch.

Then it was that inspiration came to Maximilian Robespierre, one of the most astute brains in the National Assembly. Here in Paris, he argued, it was obvious that the authorities were impotent; they had no means of finding out anything abut English spies. The only chance of discovering their identity lay not in France, but in England. Robespierre enlarged on this thesis and the others agreed with him. It was put to the vote and decided that a trustworthy patriot be sent to London, there to get in touch with every grade of society, and to ascertain how much was known over there of the identity and activities of this league of spies.

The account of these official proceedings in the Government sheets is not very detailed, but it seems that presently the name of one Armand Chauvelin came on the tapis. He was a man who, by origin, belonged to the old regime. He had at one time been ambassador to the English Court, but was now a good patriot and, what was very important, he spoke that vile English language like a native. Surely, in England, where they were so fond of bragging about their heros and sportsmen, people would be heard to talk about that famous Scarlet Pimpernel; why not send Citizen Chauvelin, as a kind of unofficial representative of the Republic to England? He would certainly overhear words which would enable him to identify some of those mysterious spies.

Fouquier-Tinville supported the plan and talked persuasively and at great length. The scheme sounded feasible. His colleagues agreed to it and applauded him enthusiastically. By all means, invest Chauvelin with diplomatic powers: create him an "accredited agent" to the English Government. Then leave the rest to him. Thank goodness that little affair was now safely settled and shelved. All they had to do now was to possess their souls in patience and await events.

Meanwhile, the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel continued its activities, and two days after citizen Chauvelin travelled to England, the Comtesse de Tournay and her daughter Suzanne, for whom a mandat d'amener had been issued, mysteriously vanished from their château where they had been virtual prisoners.

As was only to be expected, the rumours concerning the mysterious Englishman which had roused Paris to feverish excitement had reached this side of the Channel. Received at first with skepticism, then with curiosity, they were presently hailed with enthusiasm; the exploits of the gallant unknown became the sole topic of conversation at fashionable receptions: they were discussed in every club in town from the highest and most exclusive to the humble laborers' unions. Everybody's heart went out to the intrepid, lion-hearted leader and to the reckless little band of heros who daily risked their lives in the cause of humanity.

There was something, too, in the simplicity of the device -- a common little English wayside flower -- that caught the fancy of the sport-loving populace. The anonymity, the gallantry, the danger of it all, appealed to the senses as well as to the heart. Soon the name of the Scarlet Pimpernel was on everybody's lips. Bets were made as to his identity. Tailors and cooks named their creations after him: brooches made of rubies and diamonds in the shape of the scarlet flower were sold by the hundreds. But, save a few intimates, the hero's identity was never known and never would have been, perhaps, if certain family archives, buried away in musty old chests, but the authenticity of which cannot be called into question, had not brought the true facts to light.