“Chauvelin, I worked for you, sincerely, earnestly . . . remember. . . .”
“I remember my promise,” he said quietly; “the day that the Scarlet Pimpernel and I meet on French soil, St. Just will be in the arms of his charming sister.”
“Which means that a brave man’s blood will be on my hands,” she said, with a shudder.
“His blood, or that of your brother. Surely at the present moment you must hope, as I do, that the enigmatical Scarlet Pimpernel will start for Calais to-day—”
“I am only conscious of one hope, citoyen.”
“And that is?”
“That Satan, your master, will have need of you elsewhere, before the sun rises to-day.”
“You flatter me, citoyenne.”
She had detained him for a while, midway down the stairs, trying to get at the thoughts which lay beyond that thin, fox-like mask. But Chauvelin remained urbane, sarcastic, mysterious; not a line betrayed to the poor, anxious woman whether she need fear or whether she dared to hope.
Downstairs on the landing she was soon surrounded. Lady Blakeney never stepped from any house into her coach, without an escort of fluttering human moths around the dazzling light of her beauty. But before she finally turned away from Chauvelin, she held out a tiny hand to him, with that pretty gesture of childish appeal which was so essentially her own.