It seemed indeed as if the incident were finally closed, the chief
actors in the drama having deliberately vacated the centre of the stage.
The little crowd which had stood in a compact mass round the table,
began to break up into sundry small groups: laughter and desultory talk,
checked for a moment by that oppressive sense of unknown danger, which
had weighed on the spirits of those present, once more became general.
Blakeney's light-heartedness had put everyone into good-humour; since he
evidently did not look upon the challenge as a matter of serious moment,
why then, no one else had any cause for anxiety, and the younger men
were right glad to join in that bowl of punch which their genial host
had offered with so merry a grace.
Lacqueys appeared, throwing open the doors. From a distance the sound of
dance music once more broke upon the ear.
A few of the men only remained silent, deliberately holding aloof from
the renewed mirthfulness. Foremost amongst these was His Royal Highness,
who was looking distinctly troubled, and who had taken Sir Percy by
the arm, and was talking to him with obvious earnestness. Lord Anthony
Dewhurst and Lord Hastings were holding converse in a secluded corner of
the room, whilst Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, as being the host's most intimate
friend, felt it incumbent on him to say a few words to ex-Ambassador
Chauvelin.
The latter was desirous of effecting a retreat. Blakeney's invitation to
join in the friendly bowl of punch could not be taken seriously, and the
Terrorist wanted to be alone, in order to think out the events of the
past hour.
A lacquey waited on him, took the momentous sword from his hand, found
his hat and cloak and called his coach for him: Chauvelin having taken
formal leave of his host and acquaintances, quickly worked his way to
the staircase and hall, through the less frequented apartments.
He sincerely wished to avoid meeting Lady Blakeney face to face. Not
that the slightest twinge of remorse disturbed his mind, but he feared
some impulsive action on her part, which indirectly might interfere with
his future plans. Fortunately no one took much heed of the darkly-clad,
insignificant little figure that glided so swiftly by, obviously
determined to escape attention.
In the hall he found Demoiselle Candeille waiting for him. She, too, had
evidently been desirous of leaving Blakeney Manor as soon as possible.
He saw her to her chaise; then escorted her as far as her lodgings,
which were close by: there were still one or two things which he wished
to discuss with her, one or two final instructions which he desired to
give.
One the whole, he was satisfied with his evening's work: the young
actress had well supported him, and had played her part so far with
marvellous sang-froid and skill. Sir Percy, whether willingly or
blindly, had seemed only too ready to walk into the trap which was being
set for him.
This fact alone disturbed Chauvelin not a little, and as half an hour
or so later, having taken final leave of his ally, he sat alone in the
coach, which was conveying him back to town, the sword of Lorenzo Cenci
close to his hand, he pondered very seriously over it.
That the adventurous Scarlet Pimpernel should have guessed all along,
that sooner or later the French Revolutionary Government--whom he had
defrauded of some of its most important victims,--would desire to be
even with him, and to bring him to the scaffold, was not to be wondered
at. But that he should be so blind as to imagine that Chauvelin's
challenge was anything else but a lure to induce him to go to France,
could not possibly be supposed. So bold an adventurer, so keen an
intriguer was sure to have scented the trap immediately, and if he
appeared ready to fall into it, it was because there had already sprung
up in his resourceful mind some bold coup or subtle counterplan, with
which he hoped to gratify his own passionate love of sport, whilst once
more bringing his enemies to discomfiture and humiliation.
Undoubtedly Sir Percy Blakeney, as an accomplished gentleman of the
period, could not very well under the circumstances which had been so
carefully stage-managed and arranged by Chauvelin, refuse the latter's
challenge to fight him on the other side of the Channel. Any hesitation
on the part of the leader of that daring Scarlet Pimpernel League would
have covered him with a faint suspicion of pusillanimity, and a subtle
breath of ridicule, and in a moment the prestige of the unknown and
elusive hero would have vanished forever.
But apart from the necessity of the fight, Blakeney seemed to enter
into the spirit of the plot directed against his own life, with such
light-hearted merriment, such zest and joy, that Chauvelin could not
help but be convinced that the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel at
Boulogne or elsewhere would not prove quite so easy a matter as he had
at first anticipated.
That same night he wrote a long and circumstantial letter to his
colleague, Citizen Robespierre, shifting thereby, as it were, some of
the responsibility of coming events from his own shoulders on to the
executive of the Committee of Public Safety.
“I guarantee to you, Citizen Robespierre,” he wrote, “and to the members
of the Revolutionary Government who have entrusted me with the delicate
mission, that four days from this date at one hour after sunset, the man
who goes by the mysterious name of the Scarlet Pimpernel, will be on the
ramparts of Boulogne on the south side of the town. I have done what has
been asked of me. On that day and at that hour, I shall have brought
the enemy of the Revolution, the intriguer against the policy of the
republic, within the power of the government which he has flouted and
outraged. Now look to it, citizens all, that the fruits of my diplomacy
and of my skill be not lost to France again. The man will be there at my
bidding, 'tis for you to see that he does not escape this time.”
This letter he sent by special courier which the National Convention
had placed at his disposal in case of emergency. Having sealed it and
entrusted it to the man, Chauvelin felt at peace with the world and with
himself. Although he was not so sure of success as he would have wished,
he yet could not see _how_ failure could possibly come about: and the
only regret which he felt to-night, when he finally in the early dawn
sought a few hours' troubled rest, was that that momentous fourth day
was still so very far distant.