Of a truth, a fine figure of a man, Chauvelin was ready enough to admit that; the long, hard limbs, the wide chest, and slender, white hands, all bespoke the man of birth, breeding and energy: the face too looked strong and clearly-cut in repose, now that the perpetually inane smile did not play round the firm lips, nor the lazy, indolent expression mar the seriousness of the straight brow. For one moment--it was a mere flash--Chauvelin felt almost sorry that so interesting a career should be thus ignominiously brought to a close.
The Terrorist felt that if his own future, his own honour and integrity were about to be so hopelessly crushed, he would have wandered up and down this narrow room like a caged beast, eating out his heart with self-reproach and remorse, and racking his nerves and brain for an issue out of the terrible alternative which meant dishonour or death.
But this man drank and slept.
"Perhaps he doesn't care!"
And as if in answer to Chauvelin's puzzled musing a deep snore escaped the sleeping adventurer's parted lips.
Chauvelin sighed, perplexed and troubled. He looked round the little room, then went up to a small side table which stood against the wall and on which were two or three quill pens and an ink-well, also some loosely scattered sheets of paper. These he turned over with a careless hand and presently came across a closely written page.
----"Citizen Chauvelin:--In consideration of a further sum of one million francs ..."
It was the beginning of the letter! ... only a few words so far ... with several corrections of misspelt words ... and a line left out here and there which confused the meaning ... a beginning made by the unsteady hand of that drunken fool ... an attempt only at present. ...
But still ... a beginning.
Close by was the draft of it as written out by Chauvelin, and which Sir Percy had evidently begun to copy.
He had made up his mind then. ... He meant to subscribe with his own hand to his lasting dishonour ... and meaning it, he slept!
Chauvelin felt the paper trembling in his hand. He felt strangely agitated and nervous, now that the issue was so near ... so sure! ...
"There's no demmed hurry for that, is there ... er ... Monsieur Chaubertin? ..." came from the slowly wakening Sir Percy in somewhat thick, heavy accents, accompanied by a prolonged yawn. "I haven't got the demmed thing quite ready ..."
Chauvelin had been so startled that the paper dropped from his hand. He stooped to pick it up.
"Nay! why should you be so scared, sir?" continued Sir Percy lazily, "did you think I was drunk? ... I assure you, sir, on my honour, I am not so drunk as you think I am."
"I have no doubt, Sir Percy," replied Chauvelin ironically, "that you have all your marvellous faculties entirely at your command. ... I must apologize for disturbing your papers," he added, replacing the half-written page on the table, "I thought perhaps that if the letter was ready ..."
"It will be, sir ... it will be ... for I am not drunk, I assure you. ... and can write with a steady hand ... and do honour to my signature. ..."
"When will you have the letter ready, Sir Percy?"
"The 'Day-Dream' must leave the harbour at the turn of the tide," quoth Sir Percy thickly. "It'll be demmed well time by then ... won't it, sir? ..."
"About sundown, Sir Percy ... not later ..."
"About sundown ... not later ..." muttered Blakeney, as he once more stretched his long limbs along the narrow bed.
He gave a loud and hearty yawn.
"I'll not fail you ..." he murmured, as he closed his eyes, and gave a final struggle to get his head at a comfortable angle, "the letter will be written in my best cali ... calig. ... Lud! but I'm not so drunk as you think I am.
..."
But as if to belie his own oft-repeated assertion, hardly was the last word out of his mouth than his stertorous and even breathing proclaimed the fact that he was once more fast asleep.
With a shrug of the shoulders and a look of unutterable contempt at his broken-down enemy, Chauvelin turned on his heel and went out of the room.
But outside in the corridor he called the orderly to him and gave strict commands that no more wine or brandy was to be served to the Englishman under any circumstances whatever.
"He has two hours in which to sleep off the effects of all that brandy which he had consumed," he mused as he finally went back to his own quarters, "and by that time he will be able to write with a steady hand."
