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:
"We seek him here! we seek him there! Those Frenchies seek him everywhere! Is he in heaven? is he in hell? That demmed elusive Pimpernel?
"A neat rhyme, I fancy, Monsieur, and one which will, if rightly translated, greatly please your friend and ruler, Citizen Robespierre. ...
Your colleague Citizen Collot is well on his way to Paris with it by now.
... No, no, Monsieur ... as you rightly said just now ... I really could not kill you ... God having blessed me with the saving sense of humour ..."
Even as he spoke the third Ave Maria of the Angelus died away on the morning air. From the harbour the old Chateau there came the loud boom of cannon.
The hour of the opening of the gates, of the general amnesty and free harbour was announced throughout Boulogne.
Chauvelin was livid with rage, fear and baffled revenge. He made a sudden rush for the door in a blind desire to call for help, but Sir Percy had toyed long enough with his prey. The hour was speeding on: Hebert and some of the soldiers might return, and it was time to think of safety and of flight. Quick as a hunted panther, he had interposed his tall figure between his enemy and the latter's chance of calling for aid, then, seizing the little man by the shoulders, he pushed him back into that portion of the room where Marguerite and the Abbe Foucquet had been lately sitting.
The gag, with cloth and cord, which had been intended for a woman were lying on the ground close by, just where Hebert had dropped them, when he marched the old Abbe off to the Church.
With quick and dexterous hands, Sir Percy soon reduced Chauvelin to an impotent and silent bundle. The ex-ambassador after four days of harrowing nerve-tension, followed by so awful a climax, was weakened physically and mentally, whilst Blakeney, powerful, athletic and always absolutely unperturbed, was fresh in body and spirit. He had slept calmly all the afternoon, having quietly thought out all his plans, left nothing to chance, and acted methodically and quickly, and invariably with perfect repose.
Having fully assured himself that the cords were well fastened, the gag secure and Chauvelin completely helpless, he took the now inert mass up in his arms and carried it into the adjoining room, where Marguerite for twelve hours had endured a terrible martyrdom.
He laid his enemy's helpless form upon the couch, and for one moment looked down on it with a strange feeling of pity quite unmixed with contempt. The light from the lamp in the further room struck vaguely upon the prostrate figure of Chauvelin. He seemed to have lost consciousness, for the eyes were closed, only the hands, which were tied securely to his body, had a spasmodic, nervous twitch in them.
With a good-natured shrug of the shoulders the imperturbable Sir Percy turned to go, but just before he did so, he took a scrap of paper from his waistcoat pocket, and slipped it between Chauvelin's trembling fingers.
On the paper were scribbled the four lines of verse which in the next four and twenty hours Robespierre himself and his colleagues would read.
Then Blakeney finally went out of the room.
