At this very moment Collot d'Herbois and Chauvelin would with utmost satisfaction have denounced, one the other, to the tender mercies of the Public Prosecutor. Collot made no secret of his hatred for Chauvelin, and the latter disguised it but thinly under the veneer of contemptuous indifference.
“As for that dammed Englishman,” added Collot now, after a slight pause, and with another savage oath, “if 'tis my good fortune to lay hands on him, I'd shoot him then and there like a mad dog, and rid France once and forever of this accursed spy.”
“And think you, Citizen Collot,” rejoined Chauvelin with a shrug of the shoulders, “that France would be rid of all English adventurers by the summary death of this one man?”
“He is the ringleader, at any rate...”
“And has at least nineteen disciples to continue his traditions of conspiracy and intrigue. None perhaps so ingenuous as himself, none with the same daring and good luck perhaps, but still a number of ardent fools only too ready to follow in the footsteps of their chief. Then there's the halo of martyrdom around the murdered hero, the enthusiasm created by his noble death... Nay! nay, Citizen, you have not lived among these English people, you do not understand them, or you would not talk of sending their popular hero to an honoured grave.”
But Collot d'Herbois only shook his powerful frame like some big, sulky dog, and spat upon the floor to express his contempt of this wild talk which seemed to have no real tangible purpose.
“You have not caught your Scarlet Pimpernel yet, Citizen,” he said with a snort.
“No, but I will, after sundown to-morrow.”
“How do you know?”
“I have ordered the Angelus to be rung at one of the closed churches, and he agreed to fight a duel with me on the southern ramparts at that hour and on that day,” said Chauvelin simply.