Up to a late hour on the sixth night of this weary waiting, the receptacle inside the chimney was still empty. That night Chauvelin had determined to spend at the château. He could not have rested elsewhere.
Even his colleague Lebel could not know what the possession of those papers would mean to the discredited agent of the Committee of Public Safety. With them in his hands, he could demand rehabilitation, and could purchase immunity from those sneers which had been so galling to his arrogant soul—sneers which had become more and more marked, more and more unendurable, and more and more menacing, as he piled up failure on failure with every encounter with the Scarlet Pimpernel.
Immunity and rehabilitation! This would mean that he could once more measure his wits and his power with that audacious enemy who had brought about his downfall.
“In the name of Satan, bring us those papers!” Robespierre himself had cried with unwonted passion, ere he sent him out on this important mission. “We none of us could stand the scandal of such disclosures. It would mean absolute ruin for us all.”
And Chauvelin that night, as soon as the shades of evening had drawn in, took up his stand in the château, in the small inner room which was contiguous to the boudoir.
Here he sat, beside the open window, for hour upon hour, his every sense on the alert, listening for the first footfall upon the gravel path below. Though the hours went by leaden-footed, he was neither excited nor anxious. The Clamette family was such a precious hostage that the Montorgueils were bound to comply with Lucile’s demand for the papers by every dictate of honour and of humanity.
“While we have those people in our power,” Chauvelin had reiterated to himself more than once during the course of his long vigil, “even that meddlesome Scarlet Pimpernel can do nothing to save those cursed Montorgueils.”
The night was dark and still. Not a breath of air stirred the branches of the trees or the shrubberies in the park; any footsteps, however wary, must echo through that perfect and absolute silence. Chauvelin’s keen, pale eyes tried to pierce the gloom in the direction whence in all probability the aristo would come. Vaguely he wondered if it would be Henri de Montorgueil or the old Marquis himself who would bring the papers.
“Bah! whichever one it is,” he muttered, “we can easily get the other, once those abominable papers are in our hands. And even if both the aristos escape,” he added mentally, “ ’tis no matter, once we have the papers.”
Anon, far away a distant church bell struck the midnight hour. The stillness of the air had become oppressive. A kind of torpor born of intense fatigue lulled the Terrorist’s senses to somnolence. His head fell forward on his breast. …
VI
Then suddenly a shiver of excitement went right through him. He was fully awake now, with glowing eyes wide open and the icy calm of perfect confidence ruling every nerve. The sound of stealthy footsteps had reached his ear.
He could see nothing, either outside or in; but his fingers felt for the pistol which he carried in his belt. The aristo was evidently alone; only one solitary footstep was approaching the château.
Chauvelin had left the door ajar which gave on the boudoir. The staircase was on the other side of that fateful room, and the door leading to that was closed. A few minutes of tense expectancy went by. Then through the silence there came the sound of furtive footsteps on the stairs, the creaking of a loose board and finally the stealthy opening of the door.
In all his adventurous career Chauvelin had never felt so calm. His heart beat quite evenly, his senses were undisturbed by the slightest tingling of his nerves. The stealthy sounds in the next room brought the movements of the aristo perfectly clear before his mental vision. The latter was carrying a small dark lantern. As soon as he entered he flashed its light about the room. Then he deposited the lantern on the floor, close beside the hearth, and started to feel up the chimney for the hidden receptacle.
Chauvelin watched him now like a cat watches a mouse, savouring these few moments of anticipated triumph. He pushed open the door noiselessly which gave on the boudoir. By the feeble light of the lantern on the ground he could only see the vague outline of the aristo’s back, bending forward to his task; but a thrill went through him as he saw a bundle of papers lying on the ground close by.
Everything was ready; the trap was set. Here was a complete victory at last. It was obviously the young Vicomte de Montorgueil who had come to do the deed. His head was up the chimney even now. The old Marquis’s back would have looked narrower and more fragile. Chauvelin held his breath; then he gave a sharp little cough, and took the pistol from his belt.
The sound caused the aristo to turn, and the next moment a loud and merry laugh roused the dormant echoes of the old château, whilst a pleasant, drawly voice said in English:
“I am demmed if this is not my dear old friend M. Chambertin! Zounds, sir! who’d have thought of meeting you here?”
Had a cannon suddenly exploded at Chauvelin’s feet he would, I think, have felt less unnerved. For the space of two heartbeats he stood there, rooted to the spot, his eyes glued on his arch-enemy, that execrated Scarlet Pimpernel, whose mocking glance, even through the intervening gloom, seemed
