It seemed indeed as if the incident were finally closed, the chiefactors in the drama having deliberately vacated the centre of the stage.
The little crowd which had stood in a compact mass round the table,began to break up into sundry small groups: laughter and desultory talk,checked for a moment by that oppressive sense of unknown danger, whichhad weighed on the spirits of those present, once more became general.Blakeney's light-heartedness had put everyone into good-humour; since heevidently did not look upon the challenge as a matter of serious moment,why then, no one else had any cause for anxiety, and the younger menwere right glad to join in that bowl of punch which their genial hosthad offered with so merry a grace.
Lacqueys appeared, throwing open the doors. From a distance the sound ofdance music once more broke upon the ear.
A few of the men only remained silent, deliberately holding aloof fromthe renewed mirthfulness. Foremost amongst these was His Royal Highness,who was looking distinctly troubled, and who had taken Sir Percy bythe arm, and was talking to him with obvious earnestness. Lord AnthonyDewhurst and Lord Hastings were holding converse in a secluded corner ofthe room, whilst Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, as being the host's most intimatefriend, felt it incumbent on him to say a few words to ex-AmbassadorChauvelin.
The latter was desirous of effecting a retreat. Blakeney's invitation tojoin in the friendly bowl of punch could not be taken seriously, and theTerrorist wanted to be alone, in order to think out the events of thepast hour.
A lacquey waited on him, took the momentous sword from his hand, foundhis hat and cloak and called his coach for him: Chauvelin having takenformal leave of his host and acquaintances, quickly worked his way tothe staircase and hall, through the less frequented apartments.
He sincerely wished to avoid meeting Lady Blakeney face to face. Notthat the slightest twinge of remorse disturbed his mind, but he fearedsome impulsive action on her part, which indirectly might interfere withhis future plans. Fortunately no one took much heed of the darkly-clad,insignificant little figure that glided so swiftly by, obviouslydetermined to escape attention.
In the hall he found Demoiselle Candeille waiting for him. She, too, hadevidently been desirous of leaving Blakeney Manor as soon as possible.He saw her to her chaise; then escorted her as far as her lodgings,which were close by: there were still one or two things which he wishedto discuss with her, one or two final instructions which he desired togive.
One the whole, he was satisfied with his evening's work: the youngactress had well supported him, and had played her part so far withmarvellous sang-froid and skill. Sir Percy, whether willingly orblindly, had seemed only too ready to walk into the trap which was beingset for him.
This fact alone disturbed Chauvelin not a little, and as half an houror so later, having taken final leave of his ally, he sat alone in thecoach, which was conveying him back to town, the sword of Lorenzo Cenciclose to his hand, he pondered very seriously over it.
That the adventurous Scarlet Pimpernel should have guessed all along,that sooner or later the French Revolutionary Government--whom he haddefrauded of some of its most important victims,--would desire to beeven with him, and to bring him to the scaffold, was not to be wonderedat. But that he should be so blind as to imagine that Chauvelin'schallenge was anything else but a lure to induce him to go to France,could not possibly be supposed. So bold an adventurer, so keen anintriguer was sure to have scented the trap immediately, and if heappeared ready to fall into it, it was because there had already sprungup in his resourceful mind some bold coup or subtle counterplan, withwhich he hoped to gratify his own passionate love of sport, whilst oncemore bringing his enemies to discomfiture and humiliation.
Undoubtedly Sir Percy Blakeney, as an accomplished gentleman of theperiod, could not very well under the circumstances which had been socarefully stage-managed and arranged by Chauvelin, refuse the latter'schallenge to fight him on the other side of the Channel. Any hesitationon the part of the leader of that daring Scarlet Pimpernel League wouldhave covered him with a faint suspicion of pusillanimity, and a subtlebreath of ridicule, and in a moment the prestige of the unknown andelusive hero would have vanished forever.
But apart from the necessity of the fight, Blakeney seemed to enterinto the spirit of the plot directed against his own life, with suchlight-hearted merriment, such zest and joy, that Chauvelin could nothelp but be convinced that the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel atBoulogne or elsewhere would not prove quite so easy a matter as he hadat first anticipated.
That same night he wrote a long and circumstantial letter to hiscolleague, Citizen Robespierre, shifting thereby, as it were, some ofthe responsibility of coming events from his own shoulders on to theexecutive of the Committee of Public Safety.
"I guarantee to you, Citizen Robespierre," he wrote, "and to the membersof the Revolutionary Government who have entrusted me with the delicatemission, that four days from this date at one hour after sunset, the manwho goes by the mysterious name of the Scarlet Pimpernel, will be on theramparts of Boulogne on the south side of the town. I have done what hasbeen asked of me. On that day and at that hour, I shall have broughtthe enemy of the Revolution, the intriguer against the policy of therepublic, within the power of the government which he has flouted andoutraged. Now look to it, citizens all, that the fruits of my diplomacyand of my skill be not lost to France again. The man will be there at mybidding, 'tis for you to see that he does not escape this time."
This letter he sent by special courier which the National Conventionhad placed at his disposal in case of emergency. Having sealed it andentrusted it to the man, Chauvelin felt at peace with the world and withhimself. Although he was not so sure of success as he would have wished,he yet could not see _how_ failure could possibly come about: and theonly regret which he felt to-night, when he finally in the early dawnsought a few hours' troubled rest, was that that momentous fourth daywas still so very far distant.
Chapter XIV: The Ruling Passion