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Chauvelin! The presence of this man here at this moment made the events of the
past few days seem more absolutely like a dream. Chauvelin!--the most deadly
enemy he, Armand, and his sister Marguerite had in the world. Chauvelin!--the
evil genius that presided over the Secret Service of the Republic. Chauvelin--the
aristocrat turned revolutionary, the diplomat turned spy, the baffled enemy of the
Scarlet Pimpernel.
He stood there vaguely outlined in the gloom by the feeble rays of an oil lamp
fixed into the wall just above. The moisture on his sable clothes glistened in the
flickering light like a thin veil of crystal; it clung to the rim of his hat, to the folds of
his cloak; the ruffles at his throat and wrist hung limp and soiled.
He had released Armand's arm, and held his hands now underneath his cloak;
his pale, deep-set eyes rested gravely on the younger man's face.
"I had an idea, somehow," continued Chauvelin calmly, "that you and I would
meet during your sojourn in Paris. I heard from my friend Heron that you had
been in the city; he, unfortunately, lost your track almost as soon as he had found
it, and I, too, had begun to fear that our mutual and ever enigmatical friend, the
Scarlet Pimpernel, had spirited you away, which would have been a great
disappointment to me."
Now he once more took hold of Armand by the elbow, but quite gently, more like
a comrade who is glad to have met another, and is preparing to enjoy a pleasant
conversation for a while. He led the way back to the gate, the sentinel saluting at
sight of the tricolour scarf which was visible underneath his cloak. Under the
stone rampart Chauvelin paused.
It was quiet and private here. The group of soldiers stood at the further end of the
archway, but they were out of hearing, and their forms were only vaguely
discernible in the surrounding darkness.
Armand had followed his enemy mechanically like one bewitched and
irresponsible for his actions. When Chauvelin paused he too stood still, not
because of the grip on his arm, but because of that curious numbing of his will.
Vague, confused thoughts were floating through his brain, the most dominant
one among them being that Fate had effectually ordained everything for the best.
Here was Chauvelin, a man who hated him, who, of course, would wish to see
him dead. Well, surely it must be an easier matter now to barter his own life for
that of Jeanne; she had only been arrested on suspicion of harbouring him, who
was a known traitor to the Republic; then, with his capture and speedy death, her
supposed guilt would, he hoped, be forgiven. These people could have no ill-will
against her, and actors and actresses were always leniently dealt with when
possible. Then surely, surely, he could serve Jeanne best by his own arrest and
condemnation, than by working to rescue her from prison.
In the meanwhile Chauvelin shook the damp from off his cloak, talking all the
time in his own peculiar, gently ironical manner.
"Lady Blakeney?" he was saying--" I hope that she is well!"
"I thank you, sir," murmured Armand mechanically.