"Even you, citoyenne," Chauvelin replied. "On what charge, I pray you?" she demanded, with biting sarcasm. "Of trafficking with the enemies of the Republic." She shrugged her shoulders. "You are mad, citizen Chauvelin!" she riposted with perfect sang-froid. "I pray you, order your men to re-establish order in my apartment; and remember that I will hold you responsible for any damage that has been done." "Shall I also," Chauvelin rejoined with equally perfect equanimity, "replace these letters and other interesting objects, there where we found them?" "Letters?" she retorted, frowning. "What letters?" "These, citoyenne," he replied, and held up to her gaze the papers which he had in his hand. "What are they? I have never seen them before." "Nevertheless, we found them in that bureau." And Chauvelin pointed to a small piece of furniture which stood against the wall, and the drawers of which had obviously been forcibly torn open. Then as Theresia remained silent, apparently ununderstanding, he went on suavely: "They are letters written at different times to Mme. de Fontenay, née Cabarrus--_Our Lady of Pity_, as she was called by grateful Bordeaux." "By whom?" she asked. "By the interesting hero of romance who is known to the world as the Scarlet Pimpernel." "It is false!" she retorted firmly. "I have never received a letter from him in my life!" "His handwriting is all too familiar to me, citoyenne; and the letters are addressed to you." "It is false!" she reiterated with unabated firmness. "This is some devilish trick you have devised in order to ruin me. But take care, citizen Chauvelin, take care! If this is a trial of strength 'twixt you and me, the next few hours will show who will gain the day." "If it were a trial of strength 'twixt you and me, citoyenne," he rejoined blandly, "I would already be a vanquished man. But it is France this time who has challenged a traitor. That traitor is Theresia Fontenay, née Cabarrus. The trial of strength is between her and France." "You are mad, citizen Chauvelin! If there were letters writ by the Scarlet Pimpernel found in my rooms, 'tis you who put them there!" "That statement you will be at liberty to substantiate to-morrow, citoyenne," he retorted coldly, "at the bar of the revolutionary tribunal. There, no doubt, you can explain away how citizen Rateau knew of the existence of those letters, and led me straight to their discovery. I have an officer of the National Guard, the commissary of the section, and half a dozen men to prove the truth of what I say, and to add that in a wall-cupboard in your antechamber we also found this interesting collection, the use of which you, citoyenne, will no doubt be able to explain." He stepped aside and pointed to a curious heap which littered the floor--rags for the most part: a tattered shirt, frayed breeches, a grimy cap, a wig made up of lank, colourless hair, the counterpart of that which adorned the head of the coalheaver Rateau.