forward across the table and rested his chin in his
hands; instinctively Collot too leaned towards him, and both men peered
furtively round them as if wondering if prying eyes happened to be
lurking round. It was Chauvelin's pale eyes which now gleamed with
hatred and with an insatiable lust for revenge at least as powerful as
Collot's lust for blood; the unsteady light of the tallow candles threw
grotesque shadows across his brows, and his mouth was set in such rigid
lines of implacable cruelty that the brutish sot beside him gazed on him
amazed, vaguely scenting here a depth of feeling which was beyond his
power to comprehend. He repeated his question under his breath:

"What weapon do you mean to use against that accursed spy, Citizen
Chauvelin?"

"Dishonour and ridicule!" replied the other quietly.

"Bah!"

"In exchange for his life and that of his wife."

"As the woman told you just now... he will refuse."

"We shall see, Citizen."

"You are mad to think such things, Citizen, and ill serve the Republic
by sparing her bitterest foe."

A long, sarcastic laugh broke from Chauvelin's parted lips.

"Spare him?--spare the Scarlet Pimpernel!..." he ejaculated. "Nay,
Citizen, you need have no fear of that. But believe me, I have schemes
in my head by which the man whom we all hate will be more truly
destroyed than your guillotine could ever accomplish: schemes, whereby
the hero who is now worshipped in England as a demi-god will suddenly
become an object of loathing and of contempt.... Ah! I see you
understand me now... I wish to so cover him with ridicule that the very
name of the small wayside flower will become a term of derision and of
scorn. Only then shall we be rid of these pestilential English spies,
only then will the entire League of the Scarlet Pimpernel become a thing
of the past when its whilom leader, now thought akin to a god, will have
found refuge in a suicide's grave, from the withering contempt of the
entire world."

Chauvelin had spoken low, hardly above a whisper, and the echo of his
last words died away in the great, squalid room like a long-drawn-out
sigh. There was dead silence for a while save for the murmur in the
wind outside and from the floor above the measured tread of the sentinel
guarding the precious hostage in No. 6.

Both men were staring straight in front of them. Collot d'Herbois
incredulous, half-contemptuous, did not altogether approve of these
schemes which seemed to hi