“I knew that, M. Chauvelin.... But do YOU know that I have the intention of killing you now... as you stand... like a dog!...”
And throwing down the sword with one of those uncontrolled outbursts of almost animal passion, which for one instant revealed the real, inner man, he went up to Chauvelin and towering above him like a great avenging giant, he savoured for one second the joy of looking down on that puny, slender figure which he could crush with sheer brute force, with one blow from his powerful hands.
But Chauvelin at this moment was beyond fear.
“And if you killed me now, Sir Percy,” he said quietly and looking the man whom he so hated fully in the eyes, “you could not destroy that letter which my colleague is taking to Paris at this very moment.”
As he had anticipated, his words seemed to change Sir Percy's mood in an instant. The passion in the handsome, aristocratic face faded in a trice, the hard lines round the jaw and lips relaxed, the fire of revenge died out from the lazy blue eyes, and the next moment a long, loud, merry laugh raised the dormant echoes of the old fort.
“Nay, Monsieur Chaubertin,” said Sir Percy gaily, “but this is marvellous... demmed marvellous... do you hear that, m'dear?... Gadzooks! but 'tis the best joke I have heard this past twelve-months.... Monsieur here thinks... Lud! but I shall die of laughing.... Monsieur here thinks... that 'twas that demmed letter which went to Paris... and that an English gentleman lay scuffling on the floor and allowed a letter to be filched from him...”
“Sir Percy!...” gasped Chauvelin, as an awful thought seemed suddenly to flash across his fevered brain.
“Lud, sir, you are astonishing!” said Sir Percy, taking a very much crumpled sheet of paper from the capacious pocket of his elegant caped coat, and holding it close to Chauvelin's horror-stricken gaze. “THIS is the letter which I wrote at that table yonder in order to gain time and in order to fool you.... But, by the Lord, you are a bigger demmed fool than ever I took you to be, if you thought it would serve any other purpose save that of my hitting you in the face with it.”
And with a quick and violent gesture he struck Chauvelin full in the face with the paper.
“You would like to know, Monsieur Chaubertin, would you not?...” he added pleasantly, “what letter it is that your friend, Citizen Collot, is taking in such hot haste to Paris for you.... Well! the letter is not long and 'tis written in verse.... I wrote it myself upstairs to-day whilst you thought me sodden with brandy and three-parts asleep. But brandy is easily flung out of the window.... Did you think I drank it all?... Nay! as you remember, I told you that I was not so drunk as you thought?... Aye! the letter is writ in English verse, Monsieur, and it reads thus: