But let it pass.
“... that four days from this date, at one hour after sunset, the man who goes by the mysterious name of the Scarlet Pimpernel will be on the southern ramparts of Boulogne, at the extreme southern corner of the town.”
“Four days from this date...” and Citizen Chauvelin's letter is dated the nineteenth of September, 1793.
“Too much of an aristocrat—Monsieur le Marquis Chauvelin...” sneers Merlin, the Jacobin. “He does not know that all good citizens had called that date the 28th Fructidor, Year I. of the Republic.”
“No matter,” retorts Robespierre with impatient frigidity, “whatever we may call the day it was forty-eight hours ago, and in forty-eight hours more that damned Englishman will have run his head into a noose, from which, an I mistake not, he'll not find it easy to extricate himself.”
“And you believe in Citizen Chauvelin's assertion,” commented Danton with a lazy shrug of the shoulders.
“Only because he asks for help from us,” quoth Robespierre drily; “he is sure that the man will be there, but not sure if he can tackle him.”
But many were inclined to think that Chauvelin's letter was an idle boast. They knew nothing of the circumstances which had caused that letter to be written: they could not conjecture how it was that the ex-ambassador could be so precise in naming the day and hour when the enemy of France would be at the mercy of those whom he had outraged and flouted.
Nevertheless Citizen Chauvelin asks for help, and help must not be denied him. There must be no shadow of blame upon the actions of the Committee of Public Safety.
Chauvelin had been weak once, had allowed the prize to slip through his fingers; it must not occur again. He has a wonderful head for devising plans, but he needs a powerful hand to aid him, so that he may not fail again.