“Very well. My colleague, citizen Heron, has arranged for an escort of twenty men picked from the best regiment of the Garde de Paris to accompany us—yourself, him and me—to wherever you will direct us. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“You must not imagine for a moment that we, on the other hand, guarantee to give you your life and freedom even if this expedition prove unsuccessful.”
“I would not venture on suggesting such a wild proposition, sir,” said Blakeney placidly.
Chauvelin looked keenly on him. There was something in the tone of that voice that he did not altogether like—something that reminded him of an evening at Calais, and yet again of a day at Boulogne. He could not read the expression in the eyes, so with a quick gesture he pulled the lamp forward so that its light now fell full on the face of the prisoner.
“Ah! that is certainly better, is it not, my dear M. Chambertin?” said Sir Percy, beaming on his adversary with a pleasant smile.
His face, though still of the same ashen hue, looked serene if hopelessly wearied; the eyes seemed to mock. But this Chauvelin decided in himself must have been a trick of his own overwrought fancy. After a brief moment’s pause he resumed dryly:
“If, however, the expedition turns out successful in every way—if little Capet, without much trouble to our escort, falls safe and sound into our hands—if certain contingencies which I am about to tell you all fall out as we wish—then, Sir Percy, I see no reason why the Government of this country should not exercise its prerogative of mercy towards you after all.”
“An exercise, my dear M. Chambertin, which must have wearied through frequent repetition,” retorted Blakeney with the same imperturbable smile.
“The contingency at present is somewhat remote; when the time comes we’ll talk this matter over.... I will make no promise... and, anyhow, we can discuss it later.”