There normally would have been an egotistical pride beaming at the
finding of the Comte, had there seriousness of a St. Cyr repeat not
threatened to breath down his throat. Blakeney could not single-
handedly free the man. Security was too tight and Paul could not be
trusted to follow through. The man was just too close to loosing it.
The sleep he partook in was more sound, although it took several
attempts to finally fall into it. Neither the thought of the Comte
or Marguerite was comforting. Finally, Blakeney took to reliving out
a childhood game and put himself in the part of a great hero who had
been wounded in battle. As he lay there, trying to fall asleep, his
head played out the pirate son who was near slain. Blakeney kept up
the scenario until at last his brain let him rest.
The next morning, the sun woke the man known to some as the Scarlet
Pimpernel. It was early and the morning birds called out, trying to
tell this part of the world to come forth from their housing shells.
Sir Percy obeyed their songs and dressed. He ate a modest breakfast,
drank some tea and left before most of Paris stirred.
Heading towards the graveyard, advised to him by the Inn keep,
Blakeney remembered the grotesque quest that he volunteered for. It
was with much money and arguing with the French keeper of souls that
an agreement was made to dig up the body and place it back in a box
and onto the cart. 'Poor bastard,' Percy thought. 'Tossed in the
ground, wrapped in a white sheet. So disrespectful. So undeserving
of such a man.'
He almost became emotional, and then dismissed the wave and thought
of nothing. Percy changed completely to stone, as the English were
properly taught. Agreeing on a time for transfer, that afternoon at
2:00, Blakeney nodded and mounted his steed.
Sultan headed out of the graveyard and headed to the address spoke to
Blakeney one night prior. His gloved hands sweated as he clenched
the reins. There was nothing about this trip that proved any bit of
jovialness that Sir Percy liked so much, and he was going to have to
put on such a front in front of the Citoyen. The Scarlet Pimpernel
cursed himself as he dismounted his horse and tied the reins.
Forcing out an off-key hum, Sir Percy strolled lazily up to the door
and knocked in an upbeat sort of way.
Grateful for any excuse to leave behind the paperwork
that he had just only tried to do away with, the agent
stood very willingly from his desk, hindered only by
the thought of spending more than a few minutes with
Blakeney, of all clients. But the prospect of finally
investigating a lead into the notorious Scarlet
Pimpernel was more than enough to make up for time
wasted on an Englishman. Chauvelin straightened his
coat minimally, and answered the door.
"Good afternoon, Sir Percy -- thank you for your
punctuality. *Do* come in." He would need to ask the
man a few questions, first, and hope that his only
evidence was not simply a dead body -- a man's corpse
never said quite enough.
Besides, he couldn't help but picture this bloody Sod with his wife!
"Yes, yes... indeed. Bloody damn thing, the sun. Always waking
people up." Sir Percy gave a friendly smile and took to a seat
across the room. He didn't wait to be asked and Blakeney wanted to
make this over as soon as possible.
"I'm due to leave in a few short hours; don't mind me. Found the
demmed grave and all. Inn keeps are helpful for unpaid bills, but not
for information I fear." Bringing a gloved hand to his mouth, Sir
Percy turned his head and yawned.
"Wonderful. Thank you." Chauvelin took his seat,
noting with only slight irritation that Sir Percy had
already done so -- but what else did he expect, from a
man he had long ago concluded was a hopeless fop?
Folding his hands on his desk, the agent leaned
forward in his chair to fix his gaze upon the
Englishman.
"Now, if you don't mind answering a *few* quick
questions -- it would help us both greatly, I think,
if you could tell me anything about the date of your
friend's departure from England. Any information
related to his lodgings would also be appreciated,
although I understand that will be fairly difficult to
place." Chauvelin had no hope for answers, but
perhaps he could figure out why the Scarlet Pimpernel,
of all people, would have sent this fool to take care
of a relatively important affair.
Inside, Blakeney smiled with the wisdom of a predator getting
the jump on its enemy. 'He's trying to pin down a date and
cross compare when Hastings was in and when the prisoners
escaped.' he thought most cleverly. 'I think I can
oblige the man.'
He was about to answer on the escape of Helene, but quickly
thought better of it. What if Chauvelin thought Hastings
was the Pimpernel? Wouldn't it be much more fun to have
him thinking the man dead?
Rubbing his chin, Sir Percy made a very concentrated face.
"I don't know if I can say," Blakeney purposely left that
statement unidirectional. He couldn't say the date because he
couldn't remember or couldn't say because he was sworn to
secrecy? The former lover of Marguerite might pick up on it
or may not take the bait. One had to try.
Looking empty-headed at the Frenchman, Sir Percy gave a silly
little laugh and coughed. "What does it matter? Perhaps...
if memory is serving me... a week or two?" That should just about
pin point the escape of near the entire De Tournay family. "Yes...
that is what the Inn keep said. Little over 1 week."
Had Chauvelin taken the innocent fool's word, he would not
check with the man. And even if he had, he would only think
Sir Percy Blakeney of Richmond, England a more stupid fool.
Either way, Percy felt he held all the cards.
"A week, then ..." The agent wrote down a date, on
whichever paper happened to be lying on his desk, and
made a mental note to check the exact time of the most
recent prison break. He thought he had made a
connection, but he needed to be absolutely sure. "And
you haven't any idea where he was staying? I'll have
the corpse examined, of course, for cause of death,
but that will have to be after your gone ..."
Chauvelin glanced up at the other man again, pen in
hand. "I can have the findings sent to your address,
if you like. Will any of his other friends care for a
similar report? I can't imagine that there's not an
official investigator being sent from England, after
such a gentleman, especially considering our current
relations." One of the downsides to this business was
that he'd probably have to write some sort of letter
to the English Regent, if this Hastings had been
killed the way Chauvelin was beginning to suspect.
Well, this certainly was not going as Blakeney planned.
Keeping the body? What an uncivilized thought to probe
and such. No, to even give recognition of understanding
to the conversation was ludicrous. Out of the question.
Sir Percy was going to have to feign more stupidity than
ever humanly possible.
Seemingly coming out of a trance, Sir Percy blinked and
gave a bit of a worried look. "Address?" He pretended to
be lost. Let this man think what he wished. "Why, you
know the address of Blakeney Manor. Any further questions
you have, you can contact me there." Blakeney stood up and
went to lean on his cane.
In order to describe the next scene of events, one would
have to imagine a limber arm and quick of eye. Taking the
cane, Sir Percy leaned on it in such a way that his great
weight was not supported by the wooden stick. With a
shriek almost worthy of a woman, Sir Percy went down as
his hand flipped upward. The Scarlet Pimpernel did not need
to look at his victim in order to make a perfect shot. Blakeney
threw, and threw hard, the cane so it was headed on a quick shot
to Chauvelin's face. Preferable the eye, but a bloody nose or
knocked out tooth would just as easily satisfy. The action
was done in almost a poetic movement, passing easily for
the accident in which Percy meant for it to come across.
As he fell himself to the floor, Blakeney heard the cane
make contact with something, and allowed his own trousers
to tear and rip as a nail bit into his flesh just above
the ankle. With another girlish cry, Sir Percy reached down.
About to make a half-civil comment on the nature of
the affair -- it *was*, after all, the Englishman's
friend -- Chauvelin found himself suddenly up against
the wall, which stood about a foot behind his chair,
the back of his head starting to register a very
*pressing* pain, and the left side of his forehead
stinging harshly with the impact of ...
... Of what? As soon as the agent opened his eyes
from his slight (and still frustrated) grimace, he
perceived Blakeney's cane lying on top of his desk,
having apparently bounced off of his face. He raised
his hand to the spot on his forehead, just above his
left eye, where he could feel very well where the
walking stick had connected with his skull. He moved
his hand away, and quickly. And gods, a whole day's
paperwork under a rapidly seeping inkwell ...
With all the coordination he maintained (which wasn't
much), Chauvelin righted the ink well, slanted his
paper off the desk to let them drain, and then
attempted to stand, and take stock of the British
*idiot* on his floor. Even injured, he could hardly
think of being as harsh as he'd have liked.
"Sir Percy," the Frenchman began through teeth
clenched from equal parts pain and anger, "Are you
*quite* all right?"
Staggering to stand, his left foot being favored, Blakeney was quite
pleased to see he hit a good mark. Not the best mark, for an eye or
a loose tooth would have been preferable, but Pimpernels could not
be too choosey. "Good Heavens! What have I done?" It was all Percy
could do to keep from smiling and giving the sincerity of the
situation away.
"Let me help you with that," he spoke as he limped near the desk.
With a tumble, Percy forced himself on Chauvelin by the manner of
poor footing and knocked the stained paperwork out of the Frenchman's
hands. "Good Heavens Twice!" he cried and gripped onto Armand's
arm. Looking up at Chauvelin, the honest and surprised lazy blue
eyes of Sir Percy stared.
Once he got his long and lanky leg's out from underneath him, Sir
Percy stood and took out his kerchief. Waving it about, he shook his
head. "Gracious! I can't remember the last time I've had such a
fumble. What a confounding mess I've made!" Turning to the desk,
Sir Percy began to brush the ink off here and there, regardless of
the fact that it was already done.
Turning to look at Chauvelin, Sir Percy babbled in hopes of getting
thrown out, "I say, paperwork certainly is one of man's more useless
creations isn't it? Folk like you slave away to work and then
someone like me comes along and gives you paperwork. Utterly
foolish!" Giving a rather large stroke, Blakeney proceeded to not
look at what he was doing, and knock over the ink well once more. At
this same time, he lifted the soaked ink rag towards Chauvelin's face.
"Here, let me get that spot off you, say whot?"
It took all of Chauvelin's self-control (which he only
*wished* he didn't have to exercise. *Gods*, how he
would have loved to raise the world's average
intelligence ...) not to shake off the Englishman's
grip on his arm. He wasn't helped by the instinctive
state his injury had put him into, making him work all
the harder to remember his social -- and ironically
aristocratic -- attitude.
The Frenchman managed to ignore most of Blakeney's
babble about paperwork, and perhaps he would have
resented it at some other time ... but it was hard to
resent a fool in the best of circumstances, and with a
seriously bruised forehead, it was nigh impossible.
Finally, in an especially dazed moment, during which
he wondered if Sir Percy was indeed as foolish as he
thought or if any man were even capable of such a
perfect accident or why the damned man was *here* in
his office, Chauvelin's self-preservation, the basest
instinct anyone posses, got the better of him --
He grabbed the Englishman's wrist as his hand came up
with the handkerchief, and held it there, only a few
inches from his face, and did not allow it further,
staring at it in his moment of half-crazed lucidity.
No man was this perfect, no one this ... And then the
thought slipped out of his mind, he realized that Sir
Percy was not, in fact, intending to hit him, and his
fingers released from around the man's wrist, almost
mechanically. Somehow he found his words:
"It's ... quite all right. Leave it be."
"Well...." Blakeney reached across now and took back his cane.
Glancing down at the soaked kerchief, he glanced about until he spied
what looked to be a spittoon. A perfect mistaken place for trash
receptacle. With an air of grace, Sir Percy leaned forward on one
leg and tossed the ruined cloth inside.
"I should take leave now," he said by means of an apology, glancing
around at the pained Frenchman and the ruined paperwork and the
desk. Sir Percy looked about for his hat, and placed it on. "Ink
wells do come with caps I think. Or rather, if not, as I was saying
to myself the other day, 'Self, if ink wells do not come with caps,
perhaps we could invent such a cap to prevent the overspill of ink
from the ink well.' "
Putting his hand on the door, looking back at Armand almost
dejectedly, he added, "It was rather a jolly good conversation."
The man was leaving? How incredibly frustrating, and
yet amazingly relieving. The Englishman *did* tend to
incite conflicting emotions. Pity, scorn; laughing,
snarling, etc. But Chauvelin hadn't quite the
presence of mind to think everything through at the
moment ... it didn't occur to him that his one
precious lead was to be out the door in a moment, and
that any chances of speaking with him again would be
greatly diminished. Not that Sir Percy had proved
immensely helpful.
Weakly, still through clenched teeth, and now with his
eyes closed in pain as well, Chauvelin returned:
"Thank you, Sir Percy. I shall be sure to make you
aware of our findings ... would you mind, on the way
out, sending in my aid? There should be a Citoyen
Fumier ... somewhere ..."