Chauvelin, on ahead, jolted and jostled in the Jew's vehicle,
was nursing comfortable thoughts. He rubbed his hands together, with
content, as he thought of the web which he had woven, and through
which that ubiquitous and daring Englishman could not hope to escape.
As the time went on, and the old Jew drove him leisurely but surely
along the dark road, he felt more and more eager for the grand finale
of this exciting chase after the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel.
The capture of the audacious plotter would be the finest leaf
in Citoyen Chauvelin's wreath of glory. Caught, red-handed, on the
spot, in the very act of aiding and abetting the traitors against the
Republic of France, the Englishman could claim no protection from his
own country. Chauvelin had, in any case, fully made up his mind that
all intervention should come too late.
Never for a moment did the slightest remorse enter his heart,
as to the terrible position in which he had placed the unfortunate
wife, who had unconsciously betrayed her husband. As a matter of
fact, Chauvelin had ceased even to think of her: she had been a useful
tool, that was all.
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