btle
breath of ridicule, and in a moment the prestige of the unknown and
elusive hero would have vanished forever.

But apart from the necessity of the fight, Blakeney seemed to enter
into the spirit of the plot directed against his own life, with such
light-hearted merriment, such zest and joy, that Chauvelin could not
help but be convinced that the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel at
Boulogne or elsewhere would not prove quite so easy a matter as he had
at first anticipated.

That same night he wrote a long and circumstantial letter to his
colleague, Citizen Robespierre, shifting thereby, as it were, some of
the responsibility of coming events from his own shoulders on to the
executive of the Committee of Public Safety.

"I guarantee to you, Citizen Robespierre," he wrote, "and to the members
of the Revolutionary Government who have entrusted me with the delicate
mission, that four days from this date at one hour after sunset, the man
who goes by the mysterious name of the Scarlet Pimpernel, will be on the
ramparts of Boulogne on the south side of the town. I have done what has
been asked of me. On that day and at that hour, I shall have brought
the enemy of the Revolution, the intriguer against the policy of the
republic, within the power of the government which he has flouted and
outraged. Now look to it, citizens all, that the fruits of my diplomacy
and of my skill be not lost to France again. The man will be there at my
bidding, 'tis for you to see that he does not escape this time."

This letter he sent by special courier which the National Convention
had placed at his disposal in case of emergency. Having sealed it and
entrusted it to the man, Chauvelin felt at peace with the world and with
himself. Although he was not so sure of success as he would have wished,
he yet could not see _how_ failure could possibly come about: and the
only regret which he felt to-night, when he finally in the early dawn
sought a few hours' troubled rest, was that that momentous fourth day
was still so very far distant.

Chapter XIV: The Ruling Passion

In the meanwhile silence had fallen over the beautiful old manorial
house. One by one the guests had departed, leaving that peaceful sense
of complete calm and isolation which follows the noisy chatter of any
great throng bent chiefly on enjoyment.

The evening had been universally acknowledged to have been brilliantly
successful. True, the much talked of French arti