The following morning citizen Chauvelin, of the Committee of Public
Safety, gave due notice to citizen Fouquier-Tinville, the Public
Prosecutor, that the dangerous English spy, known to the world as the
Scarlet Pimpernel, was now safely under lock and key, and that he must
be transferred to the Abbaye prison forthwith and to the guillotine as
quickly as might be. No one was to take any risks this time; there must
be no question either of discrediting his famous League or of obtaining
other more valuable information out of him. Such methods had proved
disastrous in the past.
There were no safe Englishmen these days, except the dead ones, and it
would not take citizen Fouquier-Tinville much thought or time to frame
an indictment against the notorious Scarlet Pimpernel, which would do
away with the necessity of a prolonged trial. The revolutionary
government was at war with England now, and short work could be made of
all poisonous spies.
By order, therefore, of the Committee of Public Safety, the prisoner,
Paul Mole, was taken out of the cells of the depot and conveyed in a
closed carriage to the Abbaye prison. Chauvelin had the pleasure of
watching this gratifying spectacle from the windows of the Commissariat.
When he saw the closed carriage drive away, with Hebert and two men
inside and two others on the box, he turned to citizen Commissary
Cuisinier with a sigh of intense satisfaction.
"There goes the most dangerous enemy our glorious revolution has had,"
he said, with an accent of triumph which he did not attempt to disguise.
Cuisinier shrugged his shoulders.
"Possibly," he retorted curtly. "He did not seem to me to be very
dangerous and his papers were quite in order."
To this assertion Chauvelin made no reply. Indeed, how could he explain
to this stolid official the subtle workings of an intriguing brain? Had
he himself not had many a proof of how little the forging of identity
papers or of passports troubled the members of that accursed League? Had
he not seen the Scarlet Pimpernel, that exquisite Sir Percy Blakeney,
under disguises that were so grimy and so loathsome that they would have
repelled the most abject, suborned spy?
Indeed, all that was wanted now was the assurance that Hebert--who
himself had a deadly and personal grudge against the Scarlet
Pimpernel--would not allow him for one moment out of his sight.
Fortunately as to this, there was no fear. One hint to Hebert and the
man was as keen, as determined, as Chauvelin himself.
"Set your mind at rest, citizen," he said with a rough oath. "I guessed
how matters stood the moment you gave me the order. I knew you would not
take all that trouble for a real Paul Mole. But have no fear! That
accursed Englishman has not been one second out of my sight, from the
moment I arrested him in the late citizen Marat's lodgings, and by
Satan! he shall not be either, until I have seen his impudent head fall
under the guillotine."
He himself, he added, had seen to the arrangements for the disposal of
the prisoner in the Abbaye: an inner cell, partially partitioned off in
one of the guard-rooms, with no egress of its own, and only a tiny
grated air-hole high up in the wall, which gave on an outside corridor,
and through which not even a cat could manage to slip. Oh! the prisoner
was well guarded! The citizen Representative need, of a truth, have no
fear! Three or four men--of the best and most trustworthy--had not left
the guard-room since the morning. He himself (Hebert) had kept the
accursed Englishman in sight all night, had personally conveyed him to
the Abbaye, and had only left the guard-room a moment ago in order to
speak with the citizen Representative. He was going back now at once,
and would not move until the order came for the prisoner to be conveyed
to the Court of Justice and thence to summary execution.
For the nonce, Hebert concluded with a complacent chuckle, the
Englishman was still crouching dejectedly in a corner of his new cell,
with little of him visible save that naked shoulder through his torn
shirt, which, in the process of transference from one prison to another,
had become a shade more grimy than before.
Chauvelin nodded, well satisfied. He commended Hebert for his zeal,
rejoiced with him over the inevitable triumph. It would be well to
avenge that awful humiliation at Calais last September. Nevertheless, he
felt anxious and nervy; he could not comprehend the apathy assumed by
the factitious Mole. That the apathy was assumed Chauvelin was keen
enough to guess. What it portended he could not conjecture. But that the
Englishman would make a desperate attempt at escape was, of course, a
foregone conclusion. It rested with Hebert and a guard that could
neither be bribed nor fooled into treachery, to see that such an attempt
remained abortive.
What, however, had puzzled citizen Chauvelin all along was the motive
which had induced Sir Percy Blakeney to play the role of menial to Jean
Paul Marat. Behind it there lay, undoubtedly, one of those subtle
intrigues for which that insolent Scarlet Pimpernel was famous; and with
it was associated an attempt at theft upon the murdered body of the
demagogue ... an attempt which had failed, seeing that the
supposititious Paul Mole had been searched and nothing suspicious been
found upon his person.
Nevertheless, thoughts of that attempted theft disturbed Chauvelin's
equanimity. The old legend of the crumpled roseleaf was applicable in
his case. Something of his intense satisfaction would pale if this final
enterprise of the audacious adventurer were to be brought to a
triumphant close in the end.