ce, the national fete will begin within these city walls, with
Demoiselle Candeille as the thrice-honoured goddess."

"And you will be very merry here in Boulogne, I dare swear..."

"Aye, merry, sir," said Chauvelin with an involuntary and savage snarl,
as he placed a long claw-like finger upon the momentous paper before
him, "merry, for we here in Boulogne will see that which will fill the
heart of every patriot in France with gladness.... Nay! 'twas not the
death of the Scarlet Pimpernel we wanted... not the noble martyrdom of
England's chosen hero... but his humiliation and defeat... derision
and scorn... contumely and contempt. You asked me airily just now, Sir
Percy, how I proposed to accomplish this object... Well! you know it
now--by forcing you... aye, forcing--to write and sign a letter and
to take money from my hands which will brand you forever as a liar and
informer, and cover you with the thick and slimy mud of irreclaimable
infamy..."

"Lud! sir," said Sir Percy pleasantly, "what a wonderful command you
have of our language.... I wish I could speak French half as well..."

Marguerite had risen like an automaton from her chair. She felt that she
could no longer sit still, she wanted to scream out at the top of her
voice, all the horror she felt for this dastardly plot, which surely
must have had its origin in the brain of devils. She could not
understand Percy. This was one of those awful moments, which she
had been destined to experience once or twice before, when the whole
personality of her husband seemed to become shadowy before her, to slip,
as it were, past her comprehension, leaving her indescribably lonely and
wretched, trusting yet terrified.

She thought that long ere this he would have flung back every insult in
his opponent's teeth; she did not know what inducements Chauvelin had
held out in exchange for the infamous letter, what threats he had used.
That her own life and freedom were at stake, was, of course, evident,
but she cared nothing for life, and he should know that certainly she
would care still less if such a price had to be paid for it.

She longed to tell him all that was in her heart, longed to tell him how
little she valued her life, how highly she prized his honour! but how
could she, before this fiend who snarled and sneered in his anticipated
triumph, and surely, surely Percy knew!

And knowing all that, why did he not speak? Why did he not tear that
infamous paper from o