He had not arrived at a definite decision when the river came in sight, and when anon a carriage lanthorn threw a shaft of dim light through the mist-laden air.  Now he felt as if he were in a dream.  He was thrust unresisting into a closed chaise, wherein he felt the presence of several other people—­children, an old man who was muttering ceaselessly.  As in a dream he answered questions at the bridge to a guard whom he knew well.

“You know me—­Armand Chauvelin, of the Committee of Public Safety!”

As in a dream, he heard the curt words of command: 

“Pass on, in the name of the Republic!”

And all the while the thought hammered in his brain:  “Something must be done!  This is impossible!  This cannot be!  It is not I—­Chauvelin—­who am sitting here, helpless, unresisting.  It is not that impudent Scarlet Pimpernel who is sitting there before me on the box, driving me to utter humiliation!”

And yet it was all true.  All real.  The Clamette children were sitting in front of him, clinging to Lucile, terrified of him even now.  The old man was beside him—­imbecile and not understanding.  The boy Etienne was up on the box next to that audacious adventurer, whose broad back appeared to Chauvelin like a rock on which all his hopes and dreams must for ever be shattered.

The chaise rattled triumphantly through the Batignolles.  It was then broad daylight.  A brilliant early autumn day after the rains.  The sun, the keen air, all mocked Chauvelin’s helplessness, his humiliation.  Long before noon they passed St. Denis.  Here the barouche turned off the main road, halted at a small wayside house—­nothing more than a cottage.  After which everything seemed more dreamlike than ever.  All that Chauvelin remembered of it afterwards was that he was once more alone in a room with his enemy, who had demanded his signature to a number of safe-conducts, ere he finally handed over the packet of papers to him.

“How do I know that they are all here?” he heard himself vaguely muttering, while his trembling fingers handled that precious packet.

“That’s just it!” his tormentor retorted airily.  “You don’t know.  I don’t know myself,” he added, with a light laugh.  “And, personally, I don’t see how either of us can possibly ascertain.  In the meanwhile, I must bid you au revoir, my dear M. Chambertin.  I am sorry that I cannot provide you with a conveyance, and you will have to walk a league or more ere you meet one, I fear me.  We, in the meanwhile, will be well on our way to Dieppe, where my yacht, the Day Dream, lies at anchor, and I do not think that it will be worth your while to try and overtake us.  I thank you for the safe-conducts.  They will make our journey exceedingly pleasant.  Shall I give your regards to M. le Marquis de Montorgueil or to M. le Vicomte?  They are on board the Day Dream, you know.  Oh! and I was forgetting!  Lady Blakeney desired to be remembered to you.”