In his memorable interview with Robespierre, the day before he left forEngland, Chauvelin had asked that absolute power be given him, inorder that he might carry out the plans for the capture of the ScarletPimpernel, which he had in his mind. Now that he was back in France hehad no cause to complain that the revolutionary government had grudgedhim this power for which he had asked.
Implicit obedience had followed whenever he had commanded.
As soon as he heard that a woman had been arrested in the act ofuttering a passport in the name of Celine Dumont, he guessed at oncethat Marguerite Blakeney had, with characteristic impulse, fallen intothe trap which, with the aid of the woman Candeille, he had succeeded inlaying for her.
He was not the least surprised at that. He knew human nature, femininenature, far too well, ever to have been in doubt for a moment thatMarguerite would follow her husband without calculating either costs orrisks.
Ye gods! the irony of it all! Had she not been called the cleverestwoman in Europe at one time? Chauvelin himself had thus acclaimed her,in those olden days, before she and he became such mortal enemies, andwhen he was one of the many satellites that revolved round brilliantMarguerite St. Just. And to-night, when a sergeant of the town guardsbrought him news of her capture, he smiled grimly to himself; thecleverest woman in Europe had failed to perceive the trap laidtemptingly open for her.
Once more she had betrayed her husband into the hands of those who wouldnot let him escape a second time. And now she had done it with her eyesopen, with loving, passionate heart which ached for self-sacrifice, andonly succeeded in imperilling the loved one more hopelessly than before.
The sergeant was waiting for orders. Citizen Chauvelin had come toBoulogne, armed with more full and more autocratic powers than anyservant of the new republic had ever been endowed with before.The governor of the town, the captain of the guard, the fort andmunicipality were all as abject slaves before him.
As soon as he had taken possession of the quarters organized for him inthe town hall, he had asked for a list of prisoners who for one cause oranother were being detained pending further investigations.
The list was long and contained many names which were of not theslightest interest to Chauvelin: he passed them over impatiently.
"To be released at one," he said curtly.
He did not want the guard to be burdened with unnecessary duties, northe prisons of the little sea-port town to be inconveniently encumbered.He wanted room, space, air, the force and intelligence of the entiretown at his command for the one capture which meant life and revenge tohim.
"A woman--name unknown--found in possession of a forged passport inthe name of Celine Dumont, maid to the Citizeness DesireeCandeille--attempted to land--was interrogated and failed to givesatisfactory explanation of herself--detained in room No. 6 of theGayole prison."
This was one of the last names on the list, the only one of anyimportance to Citizen Chauvelin. When he read it he nearly drove hisnails into the palms of his hands, so desperate an effort did he makenot to betray before the sergeant by look or sigh the exultation whichhe felt.
For a moment he shaded his eyes against the glare of the lamp, but itwas not long before he had formulated a plan and was ready to give hisorders.
He asked for a list of prisoners already detained in the various forts.The name of l'Abbe Foucquet with those of his niece and nephew attractedhis immediate attention. He asked for further information respectingthese people, heard that the boy was a widow's only son, the solesupporter of his mother's declining years: the girl was ailing,suffering from incipient phthisis, and was blind.
Pardi! the very thing! L'Abbe himself, the friend of Juliette Marny, thepathetic personality around which this final adventure of the ScarletPimpernel was intended to revolve! and these two young people! hissister's children! one of them blind and ill, the other full of vigourand manhood.
Citizen Chauvelin had soon made up his mind.
A few quick orders to the sergeant of the guard, and l'Abbe Foucquet,weak, helpless and gentle, became the relentless jailer who would guardMarguerite more securely than a whole regiment of loyal soldiers couldhave done.
Then, having despatched a messenger to the Committee of Public Safety,Chauvelin laid himself down to rest. Fate had not deceived him. Hehad thought and schemed and planned, and events had shaped themselvesexactly as foreseen, and the fact that Marguerite Blakeney was at thepresent moment a prisoner in his hands was merely the result of his owncalculations.
As for the Scarlet Pimpernel, Chauvelin could not very well conceivewhat he would do under these present circumstances. The duel on thesouthern ramparts had of course become a farce, not likely to be enactednow that Marguerite's life was at stake. The daring adventurer wascaught in a network at last, from which all his ingenuity, all his wit,his impudence and his amazing luck could never extricate him.
And in Chauvelin's mind there was still something more. Revenge was thesweetest emotion his bruised and humbled pride could know: he had notyet tasted its complete intoxicating joy: but every hour now his cup ofdelight became more and more full: in a few days it would overflow.
In the meanwhile he was content to wait. The hours sped by and therewas no news yet of that elusive Pimpernel. Of Marguerite he knew nothingsave that she was well guarded; the sentry who passed up and downoutside room No. 6 had heard her voice and that of the Abbe Foucquet, inthe course of the afternoon.
Chauvelin had asked the Committee of Public Safety for aid in hisdifficult task, but forty-eight hours at least must elapse before suchaid could reach him. Forty-eight hours, during which the hand of anassassin might be lurking for him, and might even reach him ere hisvengeance was fully accomplished.
That was the only thought which really troubled him. He did not want todie before he had seen the Scarlet Pimpernel a withered abject creature,crushed in fame and honour, too debased to find glorification even indeath.
At this moment he only cared for his life because it was needed for thecomplete success of his schemes. No one else he knew would have thatnote of personal hatred towards the enemy of France which was necessarynow in order to carry out successfully the plans which he had formed.
Robespierre and all the others only desired the destruction of a man whohad intrigued against the reign of terror which they had established;his death on the guillotine, even if it were surrounded with the haloof martyrdom, would have satisfied them completely. Chauvelin lookedfurther than that. He hated the man! He had suffered humiliation throughhim individually. He wished to see him as an object of contempt ratherthan of pity. And because of the anticipation of this joy, he wascareful of his life, and throughout those two days which elapsedbetween the capture of Marguerite and the arrival of Collot d'Herbois atBoulogne, Chauvelin never left his quarters at the Hotel de Ville, andrequisitioned a special escort consisting of proved soldiers of the townguard to attend his every footstep.
On the evening of the 22nd, after the arrival of Citizen Collot inBoulogne, he gave orders that the woman from No. 6 cell be broughtbefore him in the ground floor room of the Fort Gayole.
Chapter XXII: Not Death