A murmur of merriment had accompanied this brief colloquy between the adversaries, and Blakeney's bland sallies were received with shouts of laughter. Now the dice rattled again and once more the two men threw.
"'Tis yours this time, Monsieur Chauvelin," said Blakeney, after a rapid glance at the dice. "See how evenly Chance favours us both. Mine, the choice of place ... admirably done you'll confess. ... Now yours the choice of time. I wait upon your pleasure, sir. ... The southern ramparts at Boulogne--when?"
"The fourth day from this, sir, at the hour when the Cathedral bell chimes the evening Angelus," came Chauvelin's ready reply.
"Nay! but methought that your demmed government had abolished Cathedrals, and bells and chimes. ... The people of France have now to go to hell their own way ... for the way to heaven has been barred by the National Convention. ... Is that not so? ... Methought the Angelus was forbidden to be rung."
"Not at Boulogne, I think, Sir Percy," retorted Chauvelin drily, "and I'll pledge you my word that the evening Angelus shall be rung that night."
"At what hour is that, sir?"
"One hour after sundown."
"But why four days after this? Why not two or three?"
"I might have asked, why the southern ramparts, Sir Percy; why not the western? I chose the fourth day--does it not suit you?" asked Chauvelin ironically.
"Suit me! Why, sir, nothing could suit me better," rejoined Blakeney with his pleasant laugh. "Zounds! but I call it marvellous ... demmed marvellous ... I wonder now," he added blandly, "what made you think of the Angelus?"
Everyone laughed at this, a little irrelevantly perhaps.
"Ah!" continued Blakeney gaily, "I remember now. ... Faith! to think that I was nigh forgetting that when last you and I met, sir, you had just taken or were about to take Holy Orders. ... Ah! how well the thought of the Angelus fits in with your clerical garb. ... I recollect that the latter was mightily becoming to you, sir ..."
"Shall we proceed to settle the conditions of the fight, Sir Percy?" said Chauvelin, interrupting the flow of his antagonist's gibes, and trying to disguise his irritation beneath a mask of impassive reserve.
"The choice of weapons you mean," here interposed His Royal Highness, "but I thought that swords had already been decided on."
"Quite so, your Highness," assented Blakeney, "but there are various little matters in connection with this momentous encounter which are of vast importance. ... Am I not right, Monsieur? ... Gentlemen, I appeal to you. ... Faith! one never knows ... my engaging opponent here might desire that I should fight him in green socks, and I that he should wear a scarlet flower in his coat."
"The Scarlet Pimpernel, Sir Percy?"
"Why not, Monsieur? It would look so well in your buttonhole, against the black of the clerical coat, which I understand you sometime affect in France ... and when it is withered and quite dead you would find that it would leave an overpowering odour in your nostrils, far stronger than that of incense."
There was general laughter after this. The hatred which every member of the French revolutionary government--including, of course, ex-Ambassador Chauvelin--bore to the national hero was well known.
"The conditions then, Sir Percy," said Chauvelin, without seeming to notice the taunt conveyed in Blakeney's last words. "Shall we throw again?"
"After you, sir," acquiesced Sir Percy.
For the third and last time the two opponents rattled the dice-box and threw. Chauvelin was now absolutely unmoved. These minor details quite failed to interest him. What mattered the conditions of the fight which was only intended as a bait with which to lure his enemy in the open? The hour and place were decided on and Sir Percy would not fail to come. Chauvelin knew enough of his opponent's boldly adventurous spirit not to feel in the least doubtful on that point. Even now, as he gazed with grudging admiration at the massive, well-knit figure of his arch-enemy, noted the thin nervy hands and square jaw, the low, broad forehead and deep-set, half-veiled eyes, he knew that in this matter wherein Percy Blakeney was obviously playing with his very life, the only emotion that really swayed him at this moment was his passionate love of adventure.
The ruling passion strong in death!
Yes! Sir Percy would be on the southern ramparts of Boulogne one hour after sunset on the day named, trusting, no doubt, in his usual marvellous good-fortune, his own presence of mind and his great physical and mental strength, to escape from the trap into which he was so ready to walk.
That remained beyond a doubt! Therefore what mattered details?
But even at this moment, Chauvelin had already resolved on one great thing: namely, that on that eventful day, nothing whatever should be left to Chance; he would meet his cunning enemy not only with cunning, but also with power, and if the entire force of the republican army then available in the north of France had to be requisitioned for the purpose, the ramparts of Boulogne would be surrounded and no chance of escape left for the daring Scarlet Pimpernel.
His wave of meditation, however, was here abruptly stemmed by Blakeney's pleasant voice.
"Lud! Monsieur Chauvelin," he said, "I fear me your luck has deserted you. Chance, as you see, has turned to me once more."
"Then it is for you, Sir Percy," rejoined the Frenchman, "to name the conditions under which we are to fight."
