"When that lumbering coward has had his punishment," he said
to Desgas, "the men can guide us as far as the cart, and one of them
can drive us in it back to Calais. The Jew and the woman can look
after each other," he added roughly, "until we can send somebody for
them in the morning. They can't run away very far, in their present
condition, and we cannot be troubled with them just now."
Chauvelin had not given up all hope. His men, he knew, were
spurred on by the hope of the reward. That enigmatic and audacious
Scarlet Pimpernel, alone and with thirty men at his heels, could not
reasonably be expected to escape a second time.
But he felt less sure now: the Englishman's audacity had
baffled him once, whilst the wooden-headed stupidity of the soldiers,
and the interference of a woman had turned his hand, which held all
the trumps, into a losing one. If Marguerite had not taken up his
time, if the soldiers had had a grain of intelligence, if. . .it was a
long "if," and Chauvelin stood for a moment quite still, and enrolled
thirty odd people in one long, overwhelming anathema. Nature, poetic,
silent, balmy, the bright moon, the calm, silvery sea spoke of beauty
and of rest, and Chauvelin cursed nature, cursed man and woman, and
above all, he cursed all long-legged, meddlesome British enigmas with
one gigantic curse.
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