“What is that?” he queried.

“As you see, citizen,” was Chauvelin’s bland reply.  “A message, such as you yourself have oft received, methinks, from our mutual enemy, the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

But already the Public Prosecutor had seized upon the paper, and of a truth Chauvelin had no longer cause to complain of his colleague’s indifference.  That doggerel rhyme, no less than the signature, had the power to rouse Fouquier-Tinville’s ire, as it had that of disturbing Chauvelin’s well-studied calm.

“What is it?” reiterated the Public Prosecutor, white now to the lips.

“I have told you, citizen,” rejoined Chauvelin imperturbably.  ’A message from that English spy.  It is also the proof which you have demanded of me—­the tangible proof that the prisoner, Paul Mole, is none other than the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

“But,” ejaculated the other hoarsely, “where did you get this?”

“It was found in the cell which Paul Mole occupied in the depot of the Rue de Tourraine, where he was first incarcerated.  I picked it up there after he was removed ... the ink was scarcely dry upon it.”

The lie came quite glibly to Chauvelin’s tongue.  Was not every method good, every device allowable, which would lead to so glorious an end?

“Why did you not tell me of this before?” queried Fouquier-Tinville, with a sudden gleam of suspicion in his deep-set eyes.

“You had not asked me for a tangible proof before,” replied Chauvelin blandly.  “I myself was so firmly convinced of what I averred that I had well-nigh forgotten the existence of this damning scrap of paper.”

Damning indeed!  Fouquier-Tinville had seen such scraps of paper before.  He had learnt the doggerel rhyme by heart, even though the English tongue was quite unfamiliar to him.  He loathed the English—­the entire nation—­with all that deadly hatred which a divergence of political aims will arouse in times of acute crises.  He hated the English government, Pitt and Burke and even Fox, the happy-go-lucky apologist of the young Revolution.  But, above all, he hated that League of English spies—­as he was pleased to call them—­whose courage, resourcefulness, as well as reckless daring, had more than once baffled his own hideous schemes of murder, of pillage, and of rape.

Thank Beelzebub and his horde of evil spirits, citizen Chauvelin had been clear-sighted enough to detect that elusive Pimpernel under the disguise of Paul Mole.

“You have deserved well of your country,” said Tinville with lusty fervour, and gave Chauvelin a vigorous slap on the shoulder.  “But for you I should have allowed that abominable spy to slip through our fingers.”

“I have succeeded in convincing you, citizen?” Chauvelin retorted dryly.

“Absolutely!” rejoined the other.  “You may now leave the matter to me.  And ’twill be friend Mole who will be surprised to-morrow,” he added with a harsh guffaw, “when he finds himself face to face with me, before a Court of Justice.”