By order, therefore, of the Committee of Public Safety, the prisoner, Paul Mole, was taken out of the cells of the depot and conveyed in a closed carriage to the Abbaye prison.  Chauvelin had the pleasure of watching this gratifying spectacle from the windows of the Commissariat.  When he saw the closed carriage drive away, with Hebert and two men inside and two others on the box, he turned to citizen Commissary Cuisinier with a sigh of intense satisfaction.

“There goes the most dangerous enemy our glorious revolution has had,” he said, with an accent of triumph which he did not attempt to disguise.

Cuisinier shrugged his shoulders.

“Possibly,” he retorted curtly.  “He did not seem to me to be very dangerous and his papers were quite in order.”

To this assertion Chauvelin made no reply.  Indeed, how could he explain to this stolid official the subtle workings of an intriguing brain?  Had he himself not had many a proof of how little the forging of identity papers or of passports troubled the members of that accursed League?  Had he not seen the Scarlet Pimpernel, that exquisite Sir Percy Blakeney, under disguises that were so grimy and so loathsome that they would have repelled the most abject, suborned spy?

Indeed, all that was wanted now was the assurance that Hebert—­who himself had a deadly and personal grudge against the Scarlet Pimpernel—­ would not allow him for one moment out of his sight.

Fortunately as to this, there was no fear.  One hint to Hebert and the man was as keen, as determined, as Chauvelin himself.

“Set your mind at rest, citizen,” he said with a rough oath.  “I guessed how matters stood the moment you gave me the order.  I knew you would not take all that trouble for a real Paul Mole.  But have no fear!  That accursed Englishman has not been one second out of my sight, from the moment I arrested him in the late citizen Marat’s lodgings, and by Satan! he shall not be either, until I have seen his impudent head fall under the guillotine.”

He himself, he added, had seen to the arrangements for the disposal of the prisoner in the Abbaye:  an inner cell, partially partitioned off in one of the guard-rooms, with no egress of its own, and only a tiny grated air-hole high up in the wall, which gave on an outside corridor, and through which not even a cat could manage to slip.  Oh! the prisoner was well guarded!  The citizen Representative need, of a truth, have no fear!  Three or four men—­of the best and most trustworthy—­had not left the guard-room since the morning.  He himself (Hebert) had kept the accursed Englishman in sight all night, had personally conveyed him to the Abbaye, and had only left the guard-room a moment ago in order to speak with the citizen Representative.  He was going back now at once, and would not move until the order came for the prisoner to be conveyed to the Court of Justice and thence to summary execution.