It took Marguerite some time to collect her scattered senses; the whole of this last short episode had taken place in less than a minute, and Desgas and the soldiers were still about two hundred yards away from the “Chat Gris.”  
When she realised what had happened, a curious mixture of joy and wonder filled her heart. It all was so neat, so ingenious. Chauvelin was still absolutely helpless, far more so than he could even have been under a blow from the fist, for now he could neither see, nor hear, nor speak, whilst his cunning adversary had quietly slipped through his fingers.
 
Blakeney was gone, obviously to try and join the fugitives at the Père Blanchard's hut. For the moment, true, Chauvelin was helpless; for the moment the daring Scarlet Pimpernel had not been caught by Desgas and his men. But all the roads and the beach were patrolled. Every place was watched, and every stranger kept in sight. How far could Percy go, thus arrayed in his gorgeous clothes, without being sighted and followed? [NEW PARAGRAPH] Now she blamed herself terribly for not having gone down to him sooner, and given him that word of warning and of love which, perhaps, after all, he needed. He could not know of the orders which Chauvelin had given for his capture, and even now, perhaps . . .
 
But before all these horrible thoughts had taken concrete form in her brain, she heard the grounding of arms outside, close to the door, and Desgas' voice shouting “Halt!” to his men.
 
Chauvelin had partially recovered; his sneezing had become less violent, and he had struggled to his feet. He managed to reach the door just as Desgas' knock was heard on the outside.
 
Chauvelin threw open the door, and before his secretary could say a word, he had managed to stammer between two sneezes—
 
“The tall stranger—quick!—did any of you see him?”
 
“Where, citoyen?” asked Desgas, in surprise.
 
“Here, man! through that door! not five minutes ago.”
 
“We saw nothing, citoyen! The moon is not yet up, and . . .”
 
“And you are just five minutes too late, my friend,” said Chauvelin, with concentrated fury.
 
“Citoyen . . . I . . .”
 
“You did what I ordered you to do,” said Chauvelin, with impatience. “I know that, but you were a precious long time about it. Fortunately, there's not much harm done, or it had fared ill with you, Citoyen Desgas.”
 
Desgas turned a little pale. There was so much rage and hatred in his superior's whole attitude.
 
“The tall stranger, citoyen—” he stammered.
 
“Was here, in this room, five minutes ago, having supper at that table. Damn his impudence! For obvious reasons, I dared not tackle him alone. Brogard is too big a fool, and that cursed Englishman appears to have the strength of a bullock, and so he slipped away under your very nose.”
 
“He cannot go far without being sighted, citoyen.”
 
“Ah?”
 
“Captain Jutley sent forty men as reinforcements for the patrol duty: twenty went down to the beach. He again assured me that the watch has been constant all day, and that no stranger could possibly get to the beach, or reach a boat, without being sighted.”
 
“That's good.—Do the men know their work?”
 
“They have had very clear orders, citoyen: and I myself spoke to those who were about to start. They are to shadow—as secretly as possible—any stranger they may see, especially if he be tall, or stoop as if he would disguise his height.”
 
“In no case to detain such a person, of course,” said Chauvelin, eagerly. “That impudent Scarlet Pimpernel would slip through clumsy fingers. We must let him get to the Père Blanchard's hut now; there surround and capture him.”
 
“The men understand that, citoyen, and also that, as soon as a tall stranger has been sighted, he must be shadowed, whilst one man is to turn straight back and report to you.”
 
“That is right,” said Chauvelin, rubbing his hands, well pleased.
 
“I have further news for you, citoyen.”
 
“What is it?”
 
“A tall Englishman had a long conversation about three-quarters of an hour ago with a Jew, Reuben by name, who lives not ten paces from here.”
 
“Yes—and?” queried Chauvelin, impatiently.
 
“The conversation was all about a horse and cart, which the tall Englishman wished to hire, and which was to have been ready for him by eleven o'clock.”
 
“It is past that now. Where does that Reuben live?”
 
“A few minutes' walk from this door.”
 
“Send one of the men to find out if the stranger has driven off in Reuben's cart.”
 
“Yes, citoyen.”
 
Desgas went to give the necessary orders to one of the men. Not a word of this conversation between him and Chauvelin had escaped Marguerite, and every word they had spoken seemed to strike at her heart, with terrible hopelessness and dark foreboding.
 
She had come all this way, and with such high hopes and firm determination to help her husband, and so far she had been able to do nothing, but to watch, with a heart breaking with anguish, the meshes of the deadly net closing round the daring Scarlet Pimpernel.
 
He could not now advance many steps, without spying eyes to track and denounce him. Her own helplessness struck her with the terrible sense of utter disappointment. The possibility of being of the slightest use to her husband had become almost nil, and her only hope rested in being allowed to share his fate, whatever it might ultimately be.
 
For the moment, even her chance of ever seeing the man she loved again, had become a remote one. Still, she was determined to keep a close watch over his enemy, and a vague hope filled her heart, that whilst she kept Chauvelin in sight, Percy's fate might still be hanging in the balance.
 
Desgas had left Chauvelin moodily pacing up and down the room, whilst he himself waited outside for the return of the man whom he had sent in search of Reuben. Thus several minutes went by. Chauvelin was evidently devoured with impatience. Apparently he trusted no one: this last trick played upon him by the daring Scarlet Pimpernel had made him suddenly doubtful of success, unless he himself was there to watch, direct and superintend the capture of this impudent Englishman.
 
About five minutes later, Desgas returned, followed by an elderly Jew, in a dirty, threadbare gaberdine, worn greasy across the shoulders. His red hair, which he wore after the fashion of the Polish Jews, with the corkscrew curls each side of his face, was plentifully sprinkled with grey—a general coating of grime, about his cheeks and his chin, gave him a peculiarly dirty and loathsome appearance. He had the habitual stoop, those of his race affected in mock humility in past centuries, before the dawn of equality and freedom in matters of faith, and he walked behind Desgas with the peculiar shuffling gait which has remained the characteristic of the Jew trader in continental Europe to this day.
 
Chauvelin, who had all the Frenchman's prejudice against the despised race, motioned to the fellow to keep at a respectful distance. The group of the three men were standing just underneath the hanging oil-lamp, and Marguerite had a clear view of them all.
 
“Is this the man?” asked Chauvelin.
 
“No, citoyen,” replied Desgas, “Reuben could not be found, so presumably his cart has gone with the stranger; but this man here seems to know something, which he is willing to sell for a consideration.”
 
“Ah!” said Chauvelin, turning away with disgust from the loathsome specimen of humanity before him.
 
The Jew, with characteristic patience, stood humbly on one side, leaning on a thick knotted staff, his greasy, broad-brimmed hat casting a deep shadow over his grimy face, waiting for the noble Excellency to deign to put some questions to him.
 
“The citoyen tells me,” said Chauvelin peremptorily to him, “that you know something of my friend, the tall Englishman, whom I desire to meet.[EOL] . . . Morbleu! keep your distance, man,” he added hurriedly, as the Jew took a quick and eager step forward.
 
“Yes, your Excellency,” replied the Jew, who spoke the language with that peculiar lisp which denotes Eastern origin, “I and Reuben Goldstein met a tall Englishman, on the road, close by here this evening.”
 
“Did you speak to him?”
 
“He spoke to us, your Excellency. He wanted to know if he could hire a horse and cart to go down along the St. Martin Road, to a place he wanted to reach to-night.”
 
“What did you say?”
 
“I did not say anything,” said the Jew in an injured tone, “Reuben Goldstein, that accursed traitor, that son of Belial . . .”
 
“Cut that short, man,” interrupted Chauvelin, roughly, “and go on with your story.”
 
“He took the words out of my mouth, your Excellency; when I was about to offer the wealthy Englishman my horse and cart, to take him wheresoever he chose, Reuben had already spoken, and offered his half-starved nag, and his broken-down cart.”
 
“And what ............