Gradually now into his loutish brain there had filtrated the conviction that Citizen Chauvelin was right, that that accursed Scarlet Pimpernel and his brood of English spies would be more effectually annihilated by all the dishonour and ridicule which such a letter written by the mysterious hero would heap upon them all, than they could ever be through the relentless work of the guillotine. His only anxiety now was whether the Englishman would write that letter.
"Bah! he'll do it," he would say whenever he thought the whole matter over: "Sacre tonnerre! but 'tis an easy means to save his own skin."
"You would sign such a letter without hesitation, eh, Citizen Collot," said Chauvelin, with well-concealed sarcasm, on one occasion when his colleague discussed the all-absorbing topic with him; "you would show no hesitation, if your life were at stake, and you were given the choice between writing that letter and ... the guillotine?"
"Parbleu!" responded Collot with conviction.
"More especially," continued Chauvelin drily, "if a million francs were promised you as well?"
"Sacre Anglis!" swore Collot angrily, "you don't propose giving him that money, do you?"
"We'll place it ready to his hand, at any rate, so that it should appear as if he had actually taken it."
Collot looked up at his colleague in ungrudging admiration. Chauvelin had indeed left nothing undone, had thought everything out in this strangely conceived scheme for the destruction of the enemy of France.
"But in the name of all the dwellers in hell, Citizen," admonished Collot, "guard that letter well, once it is in your hands."
"I'll do better than that," said Chauvelin, "I will hand it over to you, Citizen Collot, and you shall ride with it to Paris at once."
"To-night!" assented Collot with a shout of triumph, as he brought his grimy fist crashing down on the table, "I'll have a horse ready saddled at this very gate, and an escort of mounted men ... we'll ride like hell's own furies and not pause to breathe until that letter is in Citizen Robespierre's hands."
"Well thought of, Citizen," said Chauvelin approvingly. "I pray you give the necessary orders, that the horses be ready saddled, and the men booted and spurred, and waiting at the Gayole gate, at seven o'clock this evening."
"I wish the letter were written and safely in our hands by now."
"Nay! the Englishman will have it ready by this evening, never fear. The tide is high at half-past seven, and he will be in haste for his wife to be aboard his yacht, ere the turn, even if he ..."
He paused, savouring the thoughts which had suddenly flashed across his mind, and a look of intense hatred and cruel satisfaction for a moment chased away the studied impassiveness of his face.
"What do you mean, Citizen?" queried Collot anxiously, "even if he ... what? ..."
"Oh! nothing, nothing! I was only trying to make vague guesses as to what the Englishman will do AFTER he has written the letter," quoth Chauvelin reflectively.
"Morbleu! he'll return to his own accursed country ... glad enough to have escaped with his skin. ... I suppose," added Collot with sudden anxiety, "you have no fear that he will refuse at the last moment to write that letter?"
The two men were sitting in the large room, out of which opened the one which was now occupied by Marguerite. They were talking at the further end of it, close to the window, and though Chauvelin had mostly spoken in a whisper, Collot had ofttimes shouted, and the ex-ambassador was wondering how much Marguerite had heard.
Now at Collot's anxious query he gave a quick furtive glance in the direction of the further room wherein she sat, so silent and so still, that it seemed almost as if she must be sleeping.
"You don't think that the Englishman will refuse to write the letter?" insisted Collot with angry impatience.
"No!" replied Chauvelin quietly.
"But if he does?" persisted the other.
"If he does, I send the woman to Paris to-night and have him hanged as a spy in this prison yard without further formality or trial ..." replied Chauvelin firmly; "so either way, you see, Citizen," he added in a whisper, "the Scarlet Pimpernel is done for. ... But I think that he will write the letter."
"Parbleu! so do I! ..." rejoined Collot with a coarse laugh.
