Baroness Orczy

“ The quick cry which she gave was one of surprise rather than of fear. In her belated visitor she had recognized citizen Chauvelin; and somehow, by a vague process of reasoning, his presence just at this moment seemed quite rational—in keeping with the unsolved mystery that was so baffling to the fair Theresia.
"May I come in, citoyenne?" Chauvelin said in a whisper. "It is late, I know; but there is urgency."
He was standing on the threshold, and she, a few paces away from him in the vestibule. The candle, which now burned low in its socket, was behind her. ”

“ Chauvelin waited quite patiently. He was accustomed to waiting, and patience was an integral part of his stock in trade. Opportunism was another.
Theresia was sitting on her favourite settee, leaning forward with her hands clasped between her knees. her head was bent, and the tiny rose-shaded lamp failed to throw its glimmer of light upon her face. The clock on the mantelshelf behind her was ticking with insentient monotony. Anon, a distant chime struck the quarter after three. Whereupon Chauvelin rose. ”

“ Chauvelin said after awhile, "who the writer of this—shall we say?—impudent epistle happens to be?"
She nodded.
"The man," he went on placidly, "who goes by the name of the Scarlet Pimpernel. The impudent English adventurer whom citizen Robespierre has asked you, citoyenne, to lure into the net which we may spread for him." ”