Those of le Salut Public only loosened their hold for a while, were nobly magnanimous for a day, quite prepared to be doubly ferocious the next.
In the meanwhile let us heartily rejoice! The Scarlet Pimpernel is in France or will be very soon, and on an appointed day he will present himself conveniently to the soldiers of the Republic for capture and for subsequent guillotine.

England is at war with us, there is nothing therefore further to fear from her.

We might hang every Englishman we can lay hands on, and England could do no more than she is doing at the present moment: bombard our ports, bluster and threaten, join hands with Flanders, and Austria and Sardinia, and the devil if she choose.
Allons! vogue la galere! The Scarlet Pimpernel is perhaps on our shores at this very moment! Our most stinging, most irritating foe is about to be delivered into our hands.
Citizen Chauvelin's letter is very categorical: "I guarantee to you, Citizen Robespierre, and to the Members of the Revolutionary Government who have entrusted me with the delicate mission..." Robespierre's sensuous lips curl into a sarcastic smile.

Citizen Chauvelin's pen was ever florid in its style: "entrusted me with the delicate mission," is hardly the way to describe an order given under penalty of death.
But let it pass.
"...

that four days from this date, at one hour after sunset, the man who goes by the mysterious name of the Scarlet Pimpernel will be on the southern ramparts of Boulogne, at the extreme southern corner of the town." "Four days from this date..." and Citizen Chauvelin's letter is dated the nineteenth of September, 1793.
"Too much of an aristocrat--Monsieur le Marquis Chauvelin..." sneers Merlin, the Jacobin.