Perhaps after all he doesn't care!..." But the wish to have a look at that strangely complex creature--hero, adventurer or mere lucky fool--was irresistible, and Chauvelin in the latter part of the afternoon went up to the room which had been allotted to Sir Percy Blakeney.
He never moved now without his escort, and this time also two of his favourite bodyguards accompanied him to the upper floor.

He knocked at the door, but received no answer, and after a second or two he bade his men wait in the corridor and, gently turning the latch, walked in.
There was an odour of brandy in the air; on the table two or three empty bottles of wine and a glass half filled with cognac testified to the truth of what the orderly had said, whilst sprawling across the camp bedstead, which obviously was too small for his long limbs, his head thrown back, his mouth open for a vigorous snore, lay the imperturbable Sir Percy fast asleep.
Chauvelin went up to the bedstead and looked down upon the reclining figure of the man who had oft been called the most dangerous enemy of Republican France.
Of a truth, a fine figure of a man, Chauvelin was ready enough to admit that; the long, hard limbs, the wide chest, and slender, white hands, all bespoke the man of birth, breeding and energy: the face too looked strong and clearly-cut in repose, now that the perpetually inane smile did not play round the firm lips, nor the lazy, indolent expression mar the seriousness of the straight brow.

For one moment--it was a mere flash--Chauvelin felt almost sorry that so interesting a career should be thus ignominiously brought to a close.
The Terrorist felt that if his own future, his own honour and integrity were about to be so hopelessly crushed, he would have wandered up and down this narrow room like a caged beast, eating out his heart with self-reproach and remorse, and racking his nerves and brain for an issue out of the terrible alternative which meant dishonour or death.
But this man drank and slept.
"Perhaps he doesn't care!" And as if in answer to Chauvelin's puzzled musing a deep snore escaped the sleeping adventurer's parted lips.
Chauvelin sighed, perplexed and troubled.

He looked round the little room, then went up to a small side table which stood against the wall and on which were two or three quill pens and an ink-well, also some loosely scattered sheets of paper.

These he turned over with a careless hand and presently came across a closely written page.