The moisture on his sable clothes glistened in the flickering light like a thin veil of crystal; it clung to the rim of his hat, to the folds of his cloak; the ruffles at his throat and wrist hung limp and soiled.
He had released Armand's arm, and held his hands now underneath his cloak; his pale, deep-set eyes rested gravely on the younger man's face.
"I had an idea, somehow," continued Chauvelin calmly, "that you and I would meet during your sojourn in Paris.

I heard from my friend Heron that you had been in the city; he, unfortunately, lost your track almost as soon as he had found it, and I, too, had begun to fear that our mutual and ever enigmatical friend, the Scarlet Pimpernel, had spirited you away, which would have been a great disappointment to me." Now he once more took hold of Armand by the elbow, but quite gently, more like a comrade who is glad to have met another, and is preparing to enjoy a pleasant conversation for a while.

He led the way back to the gate, the sentinel saluting at sight of the tricolour scarf which was visible underneath his cloak.

Under the stone rampart Chauvelin paused.
It was quiet and private here.

The group of soldiers stood at the further end of the archway, but they were out of hearing, and their forms were only vaguely discernible in the surrounding darkness.
Armand had followed his enemy mechanically like one bewitched and irresponsible for his actions.