“Well thought of, Citizen,” said Chauvelin approvingly. “I pray you give the necessary orders, that the horses be ready saddled, and the men booted and spurred, and waiting at the Gayole gate, at seven o'clock this evening.”
“I wish the letter were written and safely in our hands by now.”
“Nay! the Englishman will have it ready by this evening, never fear. The tide is high at half-past seven, and he will be in haste for his wife to be aboard his yacht, ere the turn, even if he...”
He paused, savouring the thoughts which had suddenly flashed across his mind, and a look of intense hatred and cruel satisfaction for a moment chased away the studied impassiveness of his face.
“What do you mean, Citizen?” queried Collot anxiously, “even if he... what?...”
“Oh! nothing, nothing! I was only trying to make vague guesses as to what the Englishman will do AFTER he has written the letter,” quoth Chauvelin reflectively.
“Morbleu! he'll return to his own accursed country... glad enough to have escaped with his skin.... I suppose,” added Collot with sudden anxiety, “you have no fear that he will refuse at the last moment to write that letter?”
The two men were sitting in the large room, out of which opened the one which was now occupied by Marguerite. They were talking at the further end of it, close to the window, and though Chauvelin had mostly spoken in a whisper, Collot had ofttimes shouted, and the ex-ambassador was wondering how much Marguerite had heard.
Now at Collot's anxious query he gave a quick furtive glance in the direction of the further room wherein she sat, so silent and so still, that it seemed almost as if she must be sleeping.
“You don't think that the Englishman will refuse to write the letter?” insisted Collot with angry impatience.