Chauvelin was now absolutely unmoved.

These minor details quite failed to interest him.

What mattered the conditions of the fight which was only intended as a bait with which to lure his enemy in the open?
The hour and place were decided on and Sir Percy would not fail to come.
Chauvelin knew enough of his opponent's boldly adventurous spirit not to feel in the least doubtful on that point.

Even now, as he gazed with grudging admiration at the massive, well-knit figure of his arch-enemy, noted the thin nervy hands and square jaw, the low, broad forehead and deep-set, half-veiled eyes, he knew that in this matter wherein Percy Blakeney was obviously playing with his very life, the only emotion that really swayed him at this moment was his passionate love of adventure.
The ruling passion strong in death! Yes! Sir Percy would be on the southern ramparts of Boulogne one hour after sunset on the day named, trusting, no doubt, in his usual marvellous good-fortune, his own presence of mind and his great physical and mental strength, to escape from the trap into which he was so ready to walk.
That remained beyond a doubt! Therefore what mattered details?
But even at this moment, Chauvelin had already resolved on one great thing: namely, that on that eventful day, nothing whatever should be left to Chance; he would meet his cunning enemy not only with cunning, but also with power, and if the entire force of the republican army then available in the north of France had to be requisitioned for the purpose, the ramparts of Boulogne would be surrounded and no chance of escape left for the daring Scarlet Pimpernel.
His wave of meditation, however, was here abruptly stemmed by Blakeney's pleasant voice.
"Lud! Monsieur Chauvelin," he said, "I fear me your luck has deserted you.

Chance, as you see, has turned to me once more." "Then it is for you, Sir Percy," rejoined the Frenchman, "to name the conditions under which we are to fight." "Ah! that is so, is it not, Monsieur ?" quoth Sir Percy lightly.