“But, name of a dog!” broke in Chauvelin savagely. “You are not proposing to let the man go?”
“What else can I do?” the other rejoined fretfully. “We shall get into terrible trouble if we interfere with a man like Paul Molé. You know yourself how it is these days. We should have the whole of the rabble of Paris clamouring for our blood. If, after we have guillotined him, he is proved to be a good patriot, it will be my turn next. No! I thank you!”
“I tell you, man,” retorted Chauvelin desperately, “that the man is not Paul Molé—that he is the English spy whom we all know as the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
“Eh Bien!” riposted Fouquier-Tinville. “Bring me more tangible proof that our prisoner is not Paul Molé and I’ll deal with him quickly enough, never fear. But if by tomorrow morning you do not satisfy me on the point … I must let him go his way.”
A savage oath rose to Chauvelin’s lips. He felt like a man who has been running, panting to reach a goal, who sees that goal within easy distance of him, and is then suddenly captured, caught in invisible meshes which hold him tightly, and against which he is powerless to struggle. For the moment he hated Fouquier-Tinville with a deadly hatred, would have tortured and threatened him until he wrung a consent, an admission, out of him.
Name of a name! when that damnable English spy was actually in his power, the man was a pusillanimous fool to allow the rich prize to slip from his grasp! Chauvelin felt as if he were choking; his slender fingers worked nervily around his cravat; beads of perspiration trickled unheeded down his pallid forehead.
Then suddenly he had an inspiration—nothing less! It almost seemed as if Satan, his friend, had whispered insinuating words into his ear. That scrap of paper! He had thrust it awhile ago into the breast pocket of his coat. It was still there, and the Public Prosecutor wanted a tangible proof. … Then, why not. … ?
Slowly, his thoughts still in the process of gradual coordination, Chauvelin drew that soiled scrap of paper out of his pocket. Fouquier-Tinville, surly and ill-humoured, had his back half-turned towards him, was moodily picking at his teeth. Chauvelin had all the leisure which he required. He smoothed out the creases in the paper and spread it out carefully upon the desk close to the other man’s elbow. Fouquier-Tinville looked down on it, over his shoulder.
“What is that?” he queried.
“As you see, citizen,” was Chauvelin’s bland reply. “A message, such as you yourself have oft received, methinks, from our mutual enemy, the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
But already the Public Prosecutor had seized upon the paper, and of a truth Chauvelin had no longer cause to complain of his colleague’s indifference. That doggerel rhyme, no less than the signature, had the power to rouse Fouquier-Tinville’s ire, as it had that of disturbing Chauvelin’s well-studied calm.
“What is it?” reiterated the Public Prosecutor, white now to the lips.
“I have told you, citizen,” rejoined Chauvelin imperturbably. “A message from that English spy. It is also the proof which you have demanded of me—the tangible proof that the prisoner, Paul Molé, is none other than the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
“But,” ejaculated the other hoarsely, “where did you get this?”
“It was found in the cell which Paul Molé occupied in the depot of the Rue de Tourraine, where he was first incarcerated. I picked it up there after he was removed … the ink was scarcely dry upon it.”
The lie came quite glibly to Chauvelin’s tongue. Was not every method good, every device allowable, which would lead to so glorious an end?
“Why did you not tell me of this before?” queried Fouquier-Tinville, with a sudden gleam of suspicion in his deep-set eyes.
“You had not asked me for a tangible proof before,” replied Chauvelin blandly. “I myself was so firmly convinced of what I averred that I had well-nigh forgotten the existence of this damning scrap of paper.”
Damning indeed! Fouquier-Tinville had seen such scraps of paper before. He had learnt the doggerel rhyme by heart, even though the English tongue was quite unfamiliar to him. He loathed the English—the entire nation—with all that deadly hatred which a divergence of political aims will arouse in times of acute crises. He hated the English government, Pitt and Burke and even Fox, the happy-go-lucky apologist of the young Revolution. But, above all, he hated that League of English spies—as he was pleased to call them—whose courage, resourcefulness, as well as reckless daring, had more than once baffled his own hideous schemes of murder, of pillage, and of rape.
Thank Beelzebub and his horde of evil spirits, citizen Chauvelin had been clear-sighted enough to detect that elusive Pimpernel under the disguise of Paul Molé.
“You have deserved well of your country,” said Tinville with lusty fervour, and gave Chauvelin a vigorous slap on the shoulder. “But for you I should have allowed that abominable spy to slip through our fingers.”
“I have succeeded in convincing you, citizen?” Chauvelin retorted dryly.
“Absolutely!” rejoined the other. “You may now leave the matter to me. And ’twill be friend Molé who will be surprised tomorrow,” he added with a harsh guffaw, “when he finds himself face to face with me, before a Court of Justice.”
He was all eagerness, of course. Such a triumph for him! The indictment of the notorious Scarlet Pimpernel on a charge of espionage would be the crowning glory of his career! Let other men look to their laurels! Those who brought that dangerous enemy of revolution to the guillotine would
