Chauvelin's eyes were fixed upon him, and he from his towering height was looking down at the little sable-clad figure before him.
The Terrorist seemed uncertain what to do.

Though he was one of those men whom by the force of their intellect, the strength of their enthusiasm, the power of their cruelty, had built a new anarchical France, had overturned a throne and murdered a king, yet now, face to face with this affected fop, this lazy and debonnair adventurer, he hesitated--trying in vain to read what was going on behind that low, smooth forehead or within the depth of those lazy, blue eyes.
He would have given several years of his life at this moment for one short glimpse into the innermost brain cells of this daring mind, to see the man start, quiver but for the fraction of a second, betray himself by a tremor of the eyelid.

What counterplan was lurking in Percy Blakeney's head, as he offered to his opponent the two swords which had once belonged to Lorenzo Cenci?
Did any thought of foul play, of dark and deadly poisonings linger in the fastidious mind of this accomplished gentleman?
Surely not! Chauvelin tried to chide himself for such fears.

It seemed madness even to think of Italian poisons, of the Cencis or the Borgias in the midst of this brilliantly lighted English drawing-room.
But because he was above all a diplomatist, a fencer with words and with looks, the envoy of France determined to know, to probe and to read.

He forced himself once more to careless laughter and nonchalance of manner and schooled his lips to smile up with gentle irony at the good-humoured face of his arch-enemy.
He tapped one of the swords with his long pointed finger.
"Is this the one you choose, sir ?" asked Blakeney.
"Nay! which do you advise, Sir Percy," replied Chauvelin lightly.