In his memorable interview with Robespierre, the day before he left for
England, Chauvelin had asked that absolute power be given him, in
order that he might carry out the plans for the capture of the Scarlet
Pimpernel, which he had in his mind. Now that he was back in France he
had no cause to complain that the revolutionary government had grudged
him this power for which he had asked.
Implicit obedience had followed whenever he had commanded.
As soon as he heard that a woman had been arrested in the act of
uttering a passport in the name of Celine Dumont, he guessed at once
that Marguerite Blakeney had, with characteristic impulse, fallen into
the trap which, with the aid of the woman Candeille, he had succeeded in
laying for her.
He was not the least surprised at that. He knew human nature, feminine
nature, far too well, ever to have been in doubt for a moment that
Marguerite would follow her husband without calculating either costs or
risks.
Ye gods! the irony of it all! Had she not been called the cleverest
woman in Europe at one time? Chauvelin himself had thus acclaimed her,
in those olden days, before she and he became such mortal enemies, and
when he was one of the many satellites that revolved round brilliant
Marguerite St. Just. And to-night, when a sergeant of the town guards
brought him news of her capture, he smiled grimly to himself; the
cleverest woman in Europe had failed to perceive the trap laid
temptingly open for her.
Once more she had betrayed her husband into the hands of those who would
not let him escape a second time. And now she had done it with her eyes
open, with loving, passionate heart which ached for self-sacrifice, and
only succeeded in imperilling the loved one more hopelessly than before.
The sergeant was waiting for orders. Citizen Chauvelin had come to
Boulogne, armed with more full and more autocratic powers than any
servant of the new republic had ever been endowed with before.
The governor of the town, the captain of the guard, the fort and
municipality were all as abject slaves before him.
As soon as he had taken possession of the quarters organized for him in
the Town Hall, he had asked for a list of prisoners who for one cause or
another were being detained pending further investigations.
The list was long and contained many names which were of not the
slightest interest to Chauvelin: he passed them over impatiently.
“To be released at once,” he said curtly.
He did not want the guard to be burdened with unnecessary duties, nor
the prisons of the little sea-port town to be inconveniently encumbered.
He wanted room, space, air, the force and intelligence of the entire
town at his command for the one capture which meant life and revenge to
him.
“A woman--name unknown--found in possession of a forged passport in
the name of Celine Dumont, maid to the Citizeness Desiree
Candeille--attempted to land--was interrogated and failed to give
satisfactory explanation of herself--detained in room No. 6 of the
Gayole prison.”
This was one of the last names on the list, the only one of any
importance to Citizen Chauvelin. When he read it he nearly drove his
nails into the palms of his hands, so desperate an effort did he make
not to betray before the sergeant by look or sigh the exultation which
he felt.
For a moment he shaded his eyes against the glare of the lamp, but it
was not long before he had formulated a plan and was ready to give his
orders.
He asked for a list of prisoners already detained in the various forts.
The name of l'Abbe Foucquet with those of his niece and nephew attracted
his immediate attention. He asked for further information respecting
these people, heard that the boy was a widow's only son, the sole
supporter of his mother's declining years: the girl was ailing,
suffering from incipient phthisis, and was blind.
Pardi! the very thing! L'Abbe himself, the friend of Juliette Marny, the
pathetic personality around which this final adventure of the Scarlet
Pimpernel was intended to revolve! and these two young people! his
sister's children! one of them blind and ill, the other full of vigour
and manhood.
Citizen Chauvelin had soon made up his mind.
A few quick orders to the sergeant of the guard, and l'Abbe Foucquet,
weak, helpless and gentle, became the relentless jailer who would guard
Marguerite more securely than a whole regiment of loyal soldiers could
have done.
Then, having despatched a messenger to the Committee of Public Safety,
Chauvelin laid himself down to rest. Fate had not deceived him. He
had thought and schemed and planned, and events had shaped themselves
exactly as foreseen, and the fact that Marguerite Blakeney was at the
present moment a prisoner in his hands was merely the result of his own
calculations.
As for the Scarlet Pimpernel, Chauvelin could not very well conceive
what he would do under these present circumstances. The duel on the
southern ramparts had of course become a farce, not likely to be enacted
now that Marguerite's life was at stake. The daring adventurer was
caught in a network at last, from which all his ingenuity, all his wit,
his impudence and his amazing luck could never extricate him.
And in Chauvelin's mind there was still something more. Revenge was the
sweetest emotion his bruised and humbled pride could know: he had not
yet tasted its complete intoxicating joy: but every hour now his cup of
delight became more and more full: in a few days it would overflow.
In the meanwhile he was content to wait. The hours sped by and there
was no news yet of that elusive Pimpernel. Of Marguerite he knew nothing
save that she was well guarded; the sentry who passed up and down
outside room No. 6 had heard her voice and that of the Abbe Foucquet, in
the course of the afternoon.
Chauvelin had asked the Committee of Public Safety for aid in his
difficult task, but forty-eight hours at least must elapse before such
aid could reach him. Forty-eight hours, during which the hand of an
assassin might be lurking for him, and might even reach him ere his
vengeance was fully accomplished.
That was the only thought which really troubled him. He did not want to
die before he had seen the Scarlet Pimpernel a withered abject creature,
crushed in fame and honour, too debased to find glorification even in
death.
At this moment he only cared for his life because it was needed for the
complete success of his schemes. No one else he knew would have that
note of personal hatred towards the enemy of France which was necessary
now in order to carry out successfully the plans which he had formed.
Robespierre and all the others only desired the destruction of a man who
had intrigued against the reign of terror which they had established;
his death on the guillotine, even if it were surrounded with the halo
of martyrdom, would have satisfied them completely. Chauvelin looked
further than that. He hated the man! He had suffered humiliation through
him individually. He wished to see him as an object of contempt rather
than of pity. And because of the anticipation of this joy, he was
careful of his life, and throughout those two days which elapsed
between the capture of Marguerite and the arrival of Collot d'Herbois at
Boulogne, Chauvelin never left his quarters at the Hotel de Ville, and
requisitioned a special escort consisting of proved soldiers of the town
guard to attend his every footstep.
On the evening of the 22nd, after the arrival of Citizen Collot in
Boulogne, he gave orders that the woman from No. 6 cell be brought
before him in the ground floor room of the Fort Gayole.