“I entreat you to forgive, citizen,” he was saying in an even and pleasant voice, “this necessary violence on my part towards you.  But my errand is urgent, and I could not allow your neighbours or your household to disturb the few minutes’ conversation which I am obliged to have with you.  My friend Paul Mole,” he went on, after a slight pause, “is in grave danger of his life owing to a hallucination on the part of our mutual friend citizen Chauvelin; and I feel confident that you yourself are too deeply enamoured of your own neck to risk it wilfully by sending an innocent and honest patriot to the guillotine.”

Once more he paused and looked down upon his unwilling interlocutor, who, with muscles straining against the cords that held him, and with eyes nearly starting out of their sockets in an access of fear and of rage, was indeed presenting a pitiful spectacle.

“I dare say that by now, citizen,” the brigand continued imperturbably, “you will have guessed who I am.  You and I have oft crossed invisible swords before; but this, methinks, is the first time that we have met face to face.  I pray you, tell my dear friend M. Chauvelin that you have seen me.  Also that there were two facts which he left entirely out of his calculations, perfect though these were.  The one fact was that there were two Paul Moles—­one real and one factitious.  Tell him that, I pray you.  It was the factitious Paul Mole who stole the ring and who stood for one moment gazing into clever citizen Chauvelin’s eyes.  But that same factitious Paul Mole had disappeared in the crowd even before your colleague had recovered his presence of mind.  Tell him, I pray you, that the elusive Pimpernel whom he knows so well never assumes a fanciful disguise.  He discovered the real Paul Mole first, studied him, learned his personality, until his own became a perfect replica of the miserable caitiff.  It was the false Paul Mole who induced Jeannette Marechal to introduce him originally into the household of citizen Marat.  It was he who gained the confidence of his employer; he, for a consideration, borrowed the identity papers of his real prototype.  He again who for a few francs induced the real Paul Mole to follow him into the house of the murdered demagogue and to mingle there with the throng.  He who thrust the identity papers back into the hands of their rightful owner whilst he himself was swallowed up by the crowd.  But it was the real Paul Mole who was finally arrested and who is now lingering in the Abbaye prison, whence you, citizen Fouquier-Tinville, must free him on the instant, on pain of suffering yourself for the nightmares of your friend.”