“Has the damned aristocrat gone at last?” queried a hoarse voice, as a burly body clad in loose-fitting coat and mud-stained boots and breeches appeared within the narrow circle of light.
“Yes,” replied Chauvelin curtly.
“And a cursed long time you have been with the baggage,” grunted the other surlily. “Another five minutes and I'd have taken the matter in my own hands.
“An assumption of authority,” commented Chauvelin quietly, “to which your position here does not entitle you, Citizen Collot.”
Collot d'Herbois lounged lazily forward, and presently he threw his ill-knit figure into the chair lately vacated by Marguerite. His heavy, square face bore distinct traces of the fatigue endured in the past twenty-four hours on horseback or in jolting market waggons. His temper too appeared to have suffered on the way, and, at Chauvelin's curt and dictatorial replies, he looked as surly as a chained dog.
“You were wasting your breath over that woman,” he muttered, bringing a large and grimy fist heavily down on the table, “and your measures are not quite so sound as your fondly imagine, Citizen Chauvelin.”
“They were mostly of your imagining, Citizen Collot,” rejoined the other quietly, “and of your suggestion.”
“I added a touch of strength and determination to your mild milk-and-water notions, Citizen,” snarled Collot spitefully. “I'd have knocked that intriguing woman's brains out at the very first possible opportunity, had I been consulted earlier than this.”
“Quite regardless of the fact that such violent measures would completely damn all our chances of success as far as the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel is concerned,” remarked Chauvelin drily, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. “Once his wife is dead, the Englishman will never run his head into the noose which I have so carefully prepared for him.”
“So you say, Chauvelin; and therefore I suggested to you certain measures to prevent the woman escaping which you will find adequate, I hope.”