Even now she did not flinch.
She knew that Chauvelin had spoken the truth; the man was too earnest,
too blindly devoted to the misguided cause he had at heart, too proud
of his countrymen, of those makers of revolutions, to stoop to low,
purposeless falsehoods.
That letter of Armand's--foolish, imprudent Armand--was in
Chauvelin's hands. Marguerite knew that as if she had seen the letter
with her own eyes; and Chauvelin would hold that letter for purposes
of his own, until it suited him to destroy it or to make use of it
against Armand. All that she knew, and yet she continued to laugh
more gaily, more loudly than she had done before.
"La, man!" she said, speaking over her shoulder and looking
him full and squarely in the face, "did I not say it was some
imaginary plot. . . . Armand in league with that enigmatic Scarlet
Pimpernel!. . .Armand busy helping those French aristocrats whom he
despises!. . .Faith, the tale does infinite credit to your
imagination!"
"Let me make my point clear, citoyenne," said Chauvelin, with
the same unruffled calm, "I must assure you that St. Just is
compromised beyond the slightest hope of pardon.
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