"But I failed," he insisted, "and I meant no harm to YOU."

"To those I care for, Monsieur Chauvelin."

"I had to serve my country as best I could. I meant no harm to your
brother. He is safe in England now. And the Scarlet Pimpernel was
nothing to you."

She tried to read his face, tried to discover in those inscrutable eyes of
his, some hidden meaning to his words. Instinct had warned her of
course that this man could be nothing but an enemy, always and at all
times. But he seemed so broken, so abject now, that contempt for his
dejected attitude, and for the defeat which had been inflicted on him,
chased the last remnant of fear from her heart.

"I did not even succeed in harming that enigmatical personage,"
continued Chauvelin with the same self-abasement. "Sir Percy Blakeney,
you remember, threw himself across my plans, quite innocently of course.
I failed where you succeeded. Luck has deserted me. Our government
offered me a humble post, away from France. I look after the interests of
French subjects settled in England. My days of power are over. My
failure is complete. I do not complain, for I failed in a combat of wits ...
but I failed ... I failed ... I failed ... I am almost a fugitive and I am quite
disgraced. That is my present history, Lady Blakeney," he concluded,
taking once more a step towards her, "and you will understand that it
would be a solace if you extended your hand to me just once more, and
let me feel that although you would never willingly look upon my face
again, you have enough womanly tenderness in you to force your heart to
forgiveness and mayhap to pity."