Chauvelin quietly entered the cell. It was dimly lit and he had to squint in the obscurity. A single barred window set high in the right corner of the room shone a ghastly light on the prisoner within. The man was gravely injured, suffering from gunshot wounds, a gash on the forehead, from where he had been knocked brutally unconscious, and a broken leg that had been mangled when it had gotten caught in his cart as it smashed itself to pieces against a tree on the road. The group of soldiers chasing him had failed to capture the accursed aristocrats who where traveling with him but they were of little consequence next to this man. His wounds, deep and gruesome, bled through the hastily wrapped bandages the doctor, whom Chauvelin had allowed only to enter under strict guard, had managed to bind around the wounds after treating them as best he could.
Now the fox stood proudly over the wounded eagle, who lay shivering in the room's corner from fever and pain. His brow, low and broad, was smudged with dirt and blood which had flowed from the gash at his temple. His eyes were screwed shut against the pain and the mouth, which was perpetually curved into a half-shy, inane grin, was open slightly now, the corners turned down, blood running down the side of his chin. His ragged breathing was the only sound that pervaded the dark cell.
Chauvelin had never seen his prisoner in such a condition and it brought a malicious smile of satisfaction to his face. For the man who lay before him, bruised and bleeding, was none other then Sir Percival Blakeney, Bart., that enigmatic Scarlet Pimpernel, who had snatched condemned aristocrats from the jaws of the guillotine time and time again. Now where was his cunning, his ingenuity, his audacity? They had deserted him. There lay before the Frenchman the shell of a once great man, now struggling to live just long enough to be executed. Chauvelin rubbed his long, thin hands together in anticipation of that day; the day his greatest enemy would walk up those bloodstained steps to his death and to Chauvelin's victory.
Percy groaned in his sleep, bringing the agent of the committee of public safety out of his evil reverie. The fox-like face turned down to look closely into that of his foe's.
"Soon Blakeney, very soon. And then you will finally pay for your crimes against France … and me." And with a low, evil laugh, the smaller man made a mock bow to the once great and daring adventurer and stalked out of the room.