He knew that he did.
His thoughts only dwelt on the young enthusiast--in his mind he called him the young fool--in order to weigh in the balance the mighty possibilities that would accrue from the present sequence of events.
The fixed idea ever working in the man's scheming brain had already transformed a vague belief into a certainty.

That the Scarlet Pimpernel was in Paris at the present moment Chauvelin had now become convinced.
How far he could turn the capture of Armand St.Just to the triumph of his own ends remained to be seen.
But this he did know: the Scarlet Pimpernel--the man whom he had learned to know, to dread, and even in a grudging manner to admire--was not like to leave one of his followers in the lurch.

Marguerite's brother in the Temple would be the surest decoy for the elusive meddler who still, and in spite of all care and precaution, continued to baffle the army of spies set upon his track.
Chauvelin could hear Armand's light, elastic footsteps resounding behind him on the flagstones.

A world of intoxicating possibilities surged up before him.

Ambition, which two successive dire failures had atrophied in his breast, once more rose up buoyant and hopeful.