"Then, Sir Percy ... putting aside for the moment the question of the Scarlet Pimpernel altogether ... then, Lady Blakeney will be taken to Paris, and will be incarcerated in the prison of the Temple lately vacated by Marie Antoinette--there she will be treated in exactly the same was as the ex-queen is now being treated in the Conciergerie. ... Do you know what that means, Sir Percy? ... It does not mean a summary trial and a speedy death, with the halo and glory of martyrdom thrown in ... it means days, weeks, nay, months, perhaps, of misery and humiliation ... it means, that like Marie Antoinette, she will never be allowed solitude for one single instant of the day or night ... it means the constant proximity of soldiers, drunk with cruelty and with hate ... the insults, the shame ..."
"You hound! ... you dog! ... you cur! ... do you not see that I must strangle you for this! ..."
The attack had been so sudden and so violent that Chauvelin had not the time to utter the slightest call for help. But a second ago, Sir Percy Blakeney had been sitting on the window-sill, outwardly listening with perfect calm to what his enemy had to say; now he was at the latter's throat, pressing with long and slender hands the breath out of the Frenchman's body, his usually placid face distorted into a mask of hate.
"You cur! ... you cur! ..." he repeated, "am I to kill you or will you unsay those words?"
Then suddenly he relaxed his grip. The habits of a lifetime would not be gainsaid even now. A second ago his face had been livid with rage and hate, now a quick flush overspread it, as if he were ashamed of this loss of self-control. He threw the little Frenchman away from him like he would a beast which had snarled, and passed his hand across his brow.
"Lud forgive me!" he said quaintly, "I had almost lost my temper."
Chauvelin was not slow in recovering himself. He was plucky and alert, and his hatred for this man was so great that he had actually ceased to fear him. Now he quietly readjusted his cravat, made a vigorous effort to re-conquer his breath, and said firmly as soon as he could contrive to speak at all:
"And if you did strangle me, Sir Percy, you would do yourself no good.
The fate which I have mapped out for Lady Blakeney, would then irrevocably be hers, for she is in our power and none of my colleagues are disposed to offer you a means of saving her from it, as I am ready to do."
Blakeney was now standing in the middle of the room, with his hands buried in the pockets of his breeches, his manner and attitude once more calm, debonnair, expressive of lofty self-possession and of absolute indifference. He came quite close to the meagre little figure of his exultant enemy, thereby forcing the latter to look up at him.
"Oh! ... ah! ... yes!" he said airily, "I had nigh forgotten ... you were talking of a bargain ... my share of it ... eh? ... Is it me you want? ... Do you wish to see me in your Paris prisons? ... I assure you, sir, that the propinquity of drunken soldiers may disgust me, but it would in no way disturb the equanimity of my temper."
"I am quite sure of that, Sir Percy--and I can but repeat what I had the honour of saying to Lady Blakeney just now--I do not desire the death of so accomplished a gentleman as yourself."
"Strange, Monsieur," retorted Blakeney, with a return of his accustomed flippancy. "Now I do desire your death very strongly indeed--there would be so much less vermin on the face of the earth. ... But pardon me--I was interrupting you. ... Will you be so kind as to proceed?"
Chauvelin had not winced at the insult. His enemy's attitude now left him completely indifferent. He had seen that self-possessed man of the world, that dainty and fastidious dandy, in the throes of an overmastering passion. He had very nearly paid with his life for the joy of having roused that supercilious and dormant lion. In fact he was ready to welcome any insults from Sir Percy Blakeney now, since these would be only additional evidences that the Englishman's temper was not yet under control.
