er...
Chaubertin ?..." queried his imperturbable enemy.
Marguerite said nothing; the whole thing was too horrible for words, but she kept her large eyes fixed upon her husband's face...

waiting for that look, that sign from him which would have eased the agonizing anxiety in her heart, and which never came.
With a great effort now, Chauvelin pulled himself together and, though his voice still trembled, he managed to speak with a certain amount of calm: "Probably, Sir Percy, you know," he said, "that throughout the whole of France we are inaugurating a series of national fetes, in honour of the new religion which the people are about to adopt....

Demoiselle Desiree Candeille, whom you know, will at these festivals impersonate the Goddess of Reason, the only deity whom we admit now in France....

She has been specially chosen for this honour, owing to the services which she has rendered us recently...

and as Boulogne happens to be the lucky city in which we have succeeded in bringing the Scarlet Pimpernel to justice, the national fete will begin within these city walls, with Demoiselle Candeille as the thrice-honoured goddess." "And you will be very merry here in Boulogne, I dare swear..." "Aye, merry, sir," said Chauvelin with an involuntary and savage snarl, as he placed a long claw-like finger upon the momentous paper before him, "merry, for we here in Boulogne will see that which will fill the heart of every patriot in France with gladness....