“But what in Satan’s name are those papers?” ejaculated Lebel with a fierce oath.

“Think, citizen Lebel!  Think!” was Chauvelin’s cool rejoinder.  “Methinks you might arrive at a pretty shrewd guess.”  Then, as the other’s bluster and bounce suddenly collapsed upon his colleague’s calm, accusing gaze, the latter continued with impressive deliberation: 

“The papers which the two aristos have in their possession, citizen, are receipts for money, for bribes paid to various members of the Committee of Public Safety by Royalist agents for the overthrow of our glorious Republic.  You know all about them, do you not?”

While Chauvelin spoke, a look of furtive terror had crept into Lebel’s eyes; his cheeks became the colour of lead.  But even so, he tried to keep up an air of incredulity and of amazement.

“I?” he exclaimed.  “What do you mean, citizen Chauvelin?  What should I know about it?”

“Some of those receipts are signed with your name, citizen Lebel,” retorted Chauvelin forcefully.  “Bah!” he added, and a tone of savage contempt crept into his even, calm voice now.  “Heriot, Foucquier, Ducros and the whole gang of you are in it up to the neck:  trafficking with our enemies, trading with England, taking bribes from every quarter for working against the safety of the Republic.  Ah! if I had my way, I would let the hatred of those aristos take its course.  I would let the Montorgueils and the whole pack of Royalist agents publish those infamous proofs of your treachery and of your baseness to the entire world, and send the whole lot of you to the guillotine!”

He had spoken with so much concentrated fury, and the hatred and contempt expressed in his pale eyes were so fierce that an involuntary ice-cold shiver ran down the length of Lebel’s spine.  But, even so, he would not give in; he tried to sneer and to keep up something of his former surly defiance.

“Bah!” he exclaimed, and with a lowering glance gave hatred for hatred, and contempt for contempt.  “What can you do?  An I am not mistaken, there is no more discredited man in France to-day than the unsuccessful tracker of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

The taunt went home.  It was Chauvelin’s turn now to lose countenance, to pale to the lips.  The glow of virtuous indignation died out of his eyes, his look became furtive and shamed.

“You are right, citizen Lebel,” he said calmly after a while.  “Recriminations between us are out of place.  I am a discredited man, as you say.  Perhaps it would have been better if the Committee had sent me long ago to expiate my failures on the guillotine.  I should at least not have suffered, as I am suffering now, daily, hourly humiliation at thought of the triumph of an enemy, whom I hate with a passion which consumes my very soul.  But do not let us speak of me,” he went on quietly.  “There are graver affairs at stake just now than mine own.”