The port of Dover held air that tasted like of the sea, and a wind that warned of the dangerous channel during stormy times. This trip, like so many others Percy had taken alone, threatened of such seas. This did not phase the Baronet, for living abroad as a child, he had seen far worse out in open ocean. The channel thought it was tuff. Blakeney knew better.
For a moment, the thought crossed his mind to leave Sultan in a nearby stable for a few days, but Blakeney could tell the horse yearned for the open road, as much as he did. Blindfolding the steed, Blakeney eased him on the choppy carrier and down into the holding belly of the craft. Once there, he removed the cloth from Sultan's eyes and spoke gently to him, offering a bag of oats.
The trip across the channel was non-eventful. The Baronet stayed below deck, speaking and tending to his horse. Most traveling were not of the upper class, so it suited his situation to remain, for the most part, unseen. A few times the craft became victim to the anger of the channel, but nothing became of the idle threats.
Planting hoof and foot on French soil, the Aristocrat took hold of
the reins and headed out into the main square. Sultan eagerly looked
back and forth, searching for some wild flower in which to munch.
Understanding him, Blakeney spoke, "Yes, a bite to eat would do me
well."
A small cafe fit the bill, and Percy quickly consumed the small meal
which consisted of a local gaming bird, bread, wine, and cheese. As
he ate, Blakeney wondered if any of the locals would take note of
him. Or once he got to Paris for that fact. Some looked oddly at
the lazy eyed Englishman and out of habit, the Pimpernel quickly
looked at his signet ring to ensure it was properly faced.
It rained on the long road to Paris, and Percy stopped several times
to purchase large umbrella or to remain in the dry safety under an
awning. This annoyed the Baronet, for he would ride endlessly in bad
weather, but an aristocrat would not. Sir Percy had no choice but to
wait.
As evening came, Blakeney entered the Parisian gates. The guards
held every gaze of contempt at his clever clothes and handsome
horse. Looking at each one of them, Sir Percy gave a friendly sort
of wave, as if there was no Revolution that he was aware of. "Excuse
me, my boy, can one suggest a good Inn?" Leaning over Sultan, near
toppling over in a clumsy sort of way, Sir Percy asked a younger
man. The guards ignored him, grunted and waved him onward.
Blakeney wondered how long word of his presence in Paris would take
to reach official ears. He wondered if some of those pairs of ears
would include Chauvelin.
Along the journey to Dover, Percy had decided to pay a visit to
Paul. He was in need of news, and since the distressful letter from
Paul to Marguerite, Blakeney had carefully decided not to contact the
man. Steering Sultan in the direction of the office to Paul, he
whistled along. The fine cloth and loud off key voice made anyone
near aware of the Englishman.
Once near, Blakeney dismounted and tapped the shoulder of a
nearby 'Citoyen'. "Excuse me, my good man. Where is your
commander, hmm? My horse. Do I need a permit for my horse in this
demmed country?" His voice was with no urgency, and the gloved hand
quickly went to his face, to cover a yawn. Percy hoped Paul would be
around and about this evening.
He was hoping nothing was on the agenda for him. He just wanted to be alone but as he reached his office he saw a familiar figure in the distance. He narrowed his eyes *Blakeney?* What was he doing here? Paul looked around and seeing there was no one but them in the hall he approached the Baronet "Percy? Gad man what are you doing here?" He didn't wait for an answer and opened the door to his office. Immediately Paul gestured to Blakeney to get inside "Lets not hang
about here. It's not safe to be so in the open" To speak hurt him but he tried to mask the pain with a forced smile....
Percy blinked in surprise. Out in the open, Paul was letting anyone
know the Baronet of England and he were acquaintances. Unsure how to
play that card, Sir Percy merrily answered, "One of your little
French officers got you. You must be the man in charge."
Hearing the other man, Blakeney quickly took to wrapping the reins
around the horse fence and glances about. Who just heard Paul being
informal to him? The Baronet hoped his verbiage was enough to cover
up any damage done. "Do I need a permit Sir? I know your country is
in some sort of potential crisis and I only wish to obide by your law
while on business. No trouble here please."
The letter from Paul to Marguerite was drastically understated in his
mind. Percy had never seen Paul looking so worn and tired. Unsure
of what to make of it, Sir Percy merrily whistled off key and
followed the Frenchman inside.
Paul's eyes widened as he listened to the rambles which made, at this point, no sense to him "Oh stop it Blakeney..There is no need for your games. There is no one here so just get inside"
Taken aback, Blakeney looked about. Who might be in those shadows?
What was Paul trying to accomplish here? Deciding it best to wait
until behind closed doors, the Baronet of Richmond nodded and
followed, keeping the stupid grin on.
He ushered the Baronet inside and then followed in himself. He wasn't thinking of manners and such at this time and didn't give Blakeney the usual greeting. Instead he simply pointed to a chair as he closed the door "Just take a seat man. I'll be right with you".
The lazy blues narrowed ever so slightly. What was going on with
Paul? He was speaking to him as if this was a tailor shop and
Blakeney about to spend very little. This would not do, and smartly,
Percy waited to see what would transpire.
As he said this the pain in his jaw made him wince. Carefully he flexed it. This only caused more pain and he closed his eyes to erase it. As he recollected it all he realized this wasn't a good day. In fact it all began to bug him immensely. Paul turned and looked at Blakeney briefly. Then he went into a small chamber linked to his office and got a wet, cold cloth to numb the pain in his jaw. He winced as the coldness was placed against his bruised skin. He didn't know how bad it was and slowly, afraid of what he may see, he lifted his head and watched himself in the mirror. With a soft touch he stroked against his jaw. Examining it. The memory of the reason why made his spirits even lower than they already are. After a minute he remembered he had a visitor...
"Forgive me for the wait Sir Percy. I er.. had a bit of trouble on my over here and I didn't expect company but I'll be right there" He smoothed his hairs, straightened his cravat and tried to look more presentable..When he achieved that he walked back into his office and took a seat behind his desk "So it's eum nice to see you. Even though it is quite unexpected"
"Most of my visits are." Now in the privacy of Paul's office, Percy
dropped the fop facade and observed Paul. The man was off kelter.
His dialogue askew. "I read your letter to Marguerite..." he
started. Blakeney was unsure where to go next, for Paul was in a
foul mood and seemed to have gotten into a scrape. "Care to
elaborate?"
'Let's start there Paul.' Percy thought. 'Where shall we go from
here?'
Paul didn't have much eye for Percy. He was more wrapped up in his own thoughts than anything else and dapped the wet cloth gently on his cheek. The cold took some of the burning pain away and a sigh of relief was uttered. Then Percy's voice interrupted his train of thoughts "Huh? Er..." He blinked and leaned back in his chair, stretching his limbs and looking in contemplation at the several
bottles on the bar in the far corner "and what letter would that be Sir Blakeney? I've send so many that I don't really keep track. So perhaps you can elaborate on that first" He laid one of his hands on his leg and noticed how dusty it is from the fall. Staring at it brought painful thoughts back to his memory and with a rough, swift sweep of the hand he whiped it off or at least tried to....
"What's going on Paul? This seems to be a bad time." Blakeney could not help but notice the scuffle marks on Paul, but wrote it off as part of his job. Work in a prison meant contact with many troublesome inmates. He did not ask specifics, because it seemed obvious to his problem solving ego.
He remained looking longingly at the bottles but then slowly his eyes drifted off to Percy's. Paul realized he wasn't all that hospitable to a good friend that came from across the channel. He managed to give a small smile as he leaned forward with his elbows on the desk "I'm sorry Percy. I..It's just..I've been making a lot of mistakes lately...and things aren't going quite the way I want them to go. In fact I had thought that by now I would at least have some sort off life but ever since my wife's death..I've done nothing but work. First to obtain some satisfaction in revenge and now by making amends for my crimes and then when a small light falls into the darkness surrounding me and I think I can finally be happy...It just disappears as fast as it came" He laid his chin on his hands and stared out into oblivion "A life devoted solemnly to work Percy is not a life at all"
At first, he was taken very aback. Unsure how to respond to all this, for Blakeney had not the first idea how to handle people and their emotional states, he sat still and quiet. Paul and a wife? Egad. What a dreadful thought and certainly not something he had ever spoken of prior. Sir Percy was a good listener, even when Blakeney's mind wandered about.
He thought he should try now.
Sir Percy asked simply, "Well, a life rather than sitting, is something." He thought of his mother and father. "Do talk to me, mmm Paul?" He tried.
"No, having both like you do is far more better. Then you have someone who you can share everything with. The laughter when you succeed, the tears when you fail. Someone to hold you when you need comforting and someone who needs you. If you have none of that..then what's the point in living?" He shook his head "but I'm sure you came for far more important reasons than to hear my sorrows" Paul laid his arms down on the desk and folded his hands "So why don't you tell me why you're really here Percy"
"Yes...." he said dryly, "simply fabulous...." Paul was speaking on a level that Blakeney could not understand, nor help. His thoughts turned back to the note.
"Tis just me checking in, that is all Paul. Since your note to Lady Blakeney, it contained a tone that caused me a bit of concern....."
Raising a dark blond brow, he let the sentence hang.
Paul lifted his chin a bit and looked down in the eyes of Percy with a frown on his brow "Concern?" he asked questioningly "Concern about what Percy? Is something bothering you?"
It was unnerving. Paul avoided the issue better than an aristocratic dog at bath time. Thinking of bath reminded the Baronet of what awaited him back home. Uggrh.
"Well, yes, as a matter of fact. What is going on with you Paul?" He was losing his patience now, for he did not know how to reach out to one who was untouchable. "You are rather agressive towards me, and if you have no news, I can leave you be."
It was not the response he should have given, but Sir Percy knew no other way.
Paul stood up and walked towards the liquor cabinet "I'm not aggressive towards you Percy. I just..had a painful run-in with an Englishman's fist and I'm a tad bit on the edge. And besides being investigated by the committee during a very strenuous and dangerous time for me..everything is absolutely alright. In fact it couldn't be better" It was said with sarcasm and in a very unconcerned tone as he filled a glass with brandy. Paul acted like it meant nothing but he really was afraid. Still he couldn't let Percy in on his true feelings and practically joked about it all....
Having a run in with an Englishman could be normal status quo. The English were not fans of the French and their Revolution, and certainly the League were not the only Brits to come onto this side of the channel. Percy didn't even think to question it.
"Well, you be leary of us English. We can be most troublesome." Blakeney teased. "Why don't you stop this nonsense here and come back to England with me? Surely we can find others to fulfill what you do for us?" He suddenly felt like reliving a previous conversation. One of urging St. Cyr.
Paul teased him back "Ah yes. I couldn't agree with you more Percy. A certain memory of our first run in comes to mind" Pointed glare and a slight chuckle as he took the bottle and went back to his desk. Casually he sat down in front of Percy and took a sip of his brandy "Oh no..Thank you but France is my home. Either I live here or I die here. I don't think I would feel comfortable anywhere else and besides I have a vow to fulfill"
"And what vow might that be? To serve the French government by helping out a band of slippery Brits?"
With a smile set on his face he shook his head "No" His eyes and featured turned serious now as he spoke about his own cause "To devote my life to saving those that are unjust in French prisons instead of killing them. So that if I die I die with a clear conscience. Instead of one smothered in blood" He stirred the brandy in his glass. At this time he's realizing that he's saying things, confessing things to Percy which the Baronet never knew. Confessions that may even alter the bond of friendship between them but he had already said too much now to back down. And maybe this was that moment that he truly confides in his friend...
A brow rose. "Save the unjust?" Was he hearing him correctly. "You can not reform killers Paul.... your whole government has proven that."
"These are not killers Percy. Just misguided people. Misguided by a few that stirred up this revolution and people can change. No matter what they have done in the past...they can change" Sadness and even shame crept in his voice "I am proof of that"
He spun around in his chair, to better face Paul instead of sitting sideways to him. "What are you talking about Paul?" Blakeney was through with games and demanded an answer.
He shielded his with shame filled eyes from Blakeney and after a sigh he proceeded with his explanation "I'm talking about the fact that if we had met in that prison, only mere months, maybe even weeks, before I probably would've slayed you myself the moment you touched me."
Percy stared long and hard at Paul's words. "S-Sl-Slayed me?" The Aristocrat stammered.
"I am talking about the fact that when my beloved, my..wife was murdered I lost all my senses and craved for revenge. That was one of the reasons why I got involved in this revolution. So that those responsible would pay for all the hurt they caused me and my wife. For the humiliation, the never ending nightmares and I have made them pay. But shortly before you and I met I realized what heartless monster I had become. I regret each life I took and will regret it until the day I die. That is what I am talking about Sir Percy"
Blakeney was not sure what to say, so remained quiet in the seat. He turned back around, so he was sitting right in the chair but sideways to Paul. The decorated and gloved hand rubbed against his strong English chin.
Finally he offered, to calm the conversation subject matter, "I never knew you were married."
Paul gazed down at the carpeted floor and straightened it with the tip of his foot. The thought of his wife. It's been a few years now and still the memory of her brought him so much grieve. Oh how he missed her so. The deputy hung his head even more and closed his eyes "No one knows Sir Percy. Not even Marguerite" His eyes opened and he played with a silver wedding band that he took out of his pocket. "To talk about her brings back very painful and horrible memories so I avoid the subject as much as possible" He slipped the ring on his finger and clenched his hands around it "but perhaps I should talk about it. Perhaps that'll help me deal with her death"
Blakeney was not sure what to say. He was never of a counseling mind, especially when it came to emotional states and matters. Still, if he could get Paul to talk, he could get the man back on the right track of mind. Percy was motivated to ask, "Well sit down old boy..." The Baronet's mind was taking on a kind tone. Almost as if he was calming Sultan. Giving Paul a sigh, he ran a hand through his hair.
"Wives certainly have a way with a man, hmm?" He meant it towards Paul in a kind way, seeing as how Paul expressed such remorse and sorrow over the loss of his. Hell. Had Blakeney lost his, he would be overjoyed.
Paul lifted his eyes and gave Percy a small smile. Then he walked towards the Baronet and took a seat in chair across from him.
"Yes they do" Paul's eyes were fixed on the ground. There was just too much pain in his eyes right now to look at Percy. Pain which may soon turn in tears but the deputy is a very proud man and to break down in front of a trusty friend of nobility would be a disgrace and he kept himself in check as he chose words which didn't hurt his soul so much "Once you meet that special person she can either make your life a heaven on earth or a hell.
'Wasn't that the truth?' he thought.
"Her presence can light up a room but when she's taken from you, you see nothing but darkness.
'I have yet to see my world turn into a darker fate.....' the mind continued.
I always thought that wouldn't happen to me. Never thought I'd let my happiness, my life be dependant from a woman but the moment I saw her...I was sold. I followed her like a puppy...So blinded by love that I didn't see the hatred around me" He heaved a deep sigh and leaned back in the armchair, his legs stretched and his hands resting in his lap while they held the glass tightly clenched "I was one of them but I was never accepted and then to bring in a woman of lower class...only made them foam more" short laugh "I could feel their eyes burning in my back when I walked with her through the doors. The jealousy dripping of them because in all honesty she outshone them all" sighed and took a sip, waiting and taking a moment to collect himself before continuing....
He sat there, looking attentively at Paul, however his mind was anything but. Paul married and in love with some peasant girl? He was an officer in the French government. Where was the harm in that? Not knowing the full story, Blakeney waved his hand ever so slightly in the air. "A name Paul? And political conflict you say?"
He raked fingers back through his hair with some desperation. His mind fully occupied with the thought of her. He was even so focused he saw her vision before him. A slight smile crept on his face when he met her eyes again. Loving, bright eyes that were always glittering. Slowly as each memory filled his head the perfect image of her conjured from his mind but to him it seemed too real to disbelieve it and his face lighted up...
Paul was struggling with this story. It made him near sad for the poor sod in front of him. Imagine, being that upset over a woman.
"Her name was Selina Praintice. She was a goddess. Beautiful, enchanting...but she had a gypsy background. And I was an aristocrat.
Percy dimly recalled Paul mentioning before that he was an aristocrat. How one fell from having money to a lowly prison guard, he was not exactly sure. Not risking to be rude, the Englishman never pried or asked about that specific detail in Paul's life. After all, to fall from the grace of Aristocracy to the slimes of the cells must have been an embarrassing feat. He slightly dug a finger into the palm of his hand to keep from questioning.
"Well in a way. But she didn't care. I didn't care. We were in love. A true, pure love like I thought only existed in storybooks."
Marguerite once sung about storybooks..... Paul was not with his wife now. Did such tales ever exist outside anything but the imaginary mind?
"She gave that to me" His voice began to crack as the image before him even turned more real.
He blinked again. Paul? Emotional? This was highly irregular and nothing this man could do except feel uncomfortable and try not to show it to Paul. To cover his discomfort, Blakeney offered a bit of a smile.
A gorgeous woman, long black hair, dark as the night, and wearing nothing but a simply white nightgown which only accentuated her natural beauty even more. She rubbed her hands lovingly over her swollen belly, the look on her face one of pure, unadulterated joy. A lump rose in up in his throat.
Blakeney had no idea where it was Paul went off to, it was apparent the other man was no longer in a reality based world. Remembering an event or a first meeting? Longing painfully? What did he know of these things? 6 weeks of bliss taught him to further suppress any yearning for foolish happiness such as love. Such a stupid word. 'Where are you off to Paul?' he asked inside his head and patiently waited.
As he saw this the deputy had a hard time keeping his composure and he balled his hands into fists, fighting to stop the tears threatening to leak from his eyes "We got married soon after that day when we met. My life was a never-ending dream. We both were walking on clouds and could care less about the accusing eyes, the words of disapproval and hatred which were exchanged behind our backs. But finally they couldn't stand it so they took her from me, they murdered her. I tr..I tried to help her. I..I begged. I fought but I failed"
Finally the silence was broken. It seemed like hours past! Blakeney did not feel useful or in control when it came to such things. Let the women keep the emotion. Percival Blakeney of Richmond would keep up the wall. Hearing the words form a pictorial story, he offered, "I am sorry Paul."
As he looked at her face she began to fade. Swiftly he reached out to the image before him, trying to hold it, but it blew apart into a million razor-edged fragments that burned him. Pain jolted through his body and the hold on the glass tightened...until it broke in his hands and lacerated his skin. He winced and forced his hand open.
There the Frenchman went again. Lost to him. Seemingly acting out some bizarre scene that only Paul could vision.
With tear-clouded eyes he stared at the glass, broken, shattered like his dream was and unwanted a tear rolled down his cheek ...
This was too much. Seeing the other man cry, Blakeney did not realize what instinct was doing, but he did it anyway. Standing, the Baronet dug into his pocket and produced his handkerchief. As if Paul were a woman, in a gentlemanly manner, Percy offered it to the other man.
He felt horribly uncomfortable and knew nothing of worth to say. Like a futile tower, he stood in silence.
After a few moments of an awkward silence and concentrated thought the deputy found his words again. "I'm sorry" His voice was barely a whisper and trembled from the unshed tears which were still threatening to fall. He continued after another moment of silence "F.forgive me" he croaked "for this sad display Sir.
N..normally I..I manage to keep myself under control b..but this time...I saw her. I..never do really..except in my dreams but then no one is witness of the pathetic man that I then become. My apologies" He looked at his wrapped up hand, the blood already soaking the lace hanky. Paul was so messed up right now he could no longer look at his friend and he dropped his head. He needed a drink. Only liquor can erase or replace the pain he now felt in his brain. Although it has brought him some troubles in the past when it was the only thing that could bring him peace. He dismissed the thought. Drinking wasn't what he needed now. He just..needed..He sighed. What did he need? He didn't know and just stared at the floor.....
Wasn't this a catch? Standing there, wondering why he was still in this office of Paul's... for so long. An Englishman dressed to the nine. It began to make Blakeney nervous. This conversation could not have been placed at a more worse time.
"I should take leave Paul," his voice was soft and apologetic. "I am sorry for your... pain. Perhaps we can meet when I am in a more proper attire and not a target for your country."
Percy wondered what would explain this. Sultan was outside, probably getting pawed over and hopefully not stolen. That would be a hard one to explain to the wife. 'My horse was stolen in France.'
Are you up to roughly lead me out of here Paul? I fear if you do not, if there is no sort of conflict, it will cause more attention than if I were to quietly walk myself out."
Could Paul understand or was he going to drift off somewhere again?
Blakeney knew it was foolish of him to have let Paul go on so, but he felt sorry for the other man. The Deputy truly believed that there was some sort of magic well where storybook lovers existed. God save the King! The urgency to rid himself of the French guardhouse grew and Percy fought the urge to pace.
"Yes...you should go" The deputy felt just as awkward that Percy was there as Percy himself was being there. He chided himself for being so weak. For letting his emotions get the better of him. He always had a grip on things. Always was perfectly in control of the emotions which raged in his heart. He knew when to give into them and he knew when not. But lately..he felt his grip loosening. He felt it slowly slip and he was losing himself. One of the anchor points for his life crumbled, eroding in uncertainty, cutting him a drift without a chance of recovering himself.
He was lost
He shook his head to erase it all from his head and stood up. "Lead you out?" Quizzically the deputy looked at the Englishman "Conflict? I'm sorry you lost me. Er can't we just walk out of here? Why all this fuss?" His mind wasn't there. He didn't think of the danger, didn't think of the revolution and of the bad blood between Frenchies and the English. He just wanted Percy out of there before he broke down completely. Although it was a bit late for that. For he could sunk no lower....
Seeing the state of Paul, Blakeney did what he did best and took charge. "Never mind it all Paul. Sit and rest a bit, eh? I'll take care of it old boy." He offered a bit of a smile and turned to head out. Blakeney put up a hand, to tell Paul to stay back and inside the office. It was a risky move, but Blakeney feared worse that Paul should come with in that radical state he was in. Was radical the right word? His mind was irrational and Percy could only wonder what Paul was thinking. The Deputy's focus was on nothing tangible.
Blakeney opened the door quietly and popped his head out. There was no one near so he exited and shut it behind him. He moved away from Paul's office and when he was about ten feet out, started moving his body quickly forward.
"Well of all the things! Taxing a man to park his horse! Outrageous price, fifty francs!" In his humdrum English way, Sir Percy brushed off his arms, as if he was man handled.
As he exited the building, Sir Percy looked at the first Revolutionary man he saw and spoke, "At least he did not make true to his threats of striking me, La! What an thing!"
Mounting Sultan, Blakeney headed at a slow pace towards the address in his pocket. He wished not to go, but something's in life were things not to question. They had to be done.
He had not seen the Englishman enter the Deputy's office, nor had he seen him exit, but it was to Jockers that Sir Percy Blakeney spoke too. Jockers did not know the man's exact name, but he had, like most of Paris, seen that exact man on the arm of Marguerite St. Just just a few months prior. Rumor was she had married this man.
For fear of having information that could later be his neck, Jockers took on foot to the streets and headed towards Chauvelin. Rumors of Chauvelin and St. Just were equally strong in France. Jockers felt it in his best life's interest to find Chauvelin and tell him who was in Paris. Foul play was always a fun sport.
The agent was terribly bored, which didn't often happen, really, at all -- another twenty minutes of revising code, and he might well have been desperate enough to go seek out some paperwork. Perhaps he would let his secretary off for the day. Of course, he ought to get home, and to his daughter, as quickly as he could. Having decided that the codes could wait for tomorrow morning (when it was cooler, hopefully), he was in the act of pulling on his coat as he heard a knock at his office door. Mixed hope and irritation crossed his face as he found an unfamiliar man standing outside of his doorway. He waited for an explanation, straightening his jacket.
"Greetings Citoyen Chauvelin. I hope I haven't disturbed you at an unwanted hour, but you may wish to hear what I have to say." He glanced around, and lowering his gaze, he also lowered his voice. "I done seen with me own eyes that Englishman that got himself hitched to the actress Marguerite St. Just. Headed west of our prisons not more than a few moments before." Looking up hopeful, for he wished to be praised, Jockers offered a toothy grin. "Thoughts it best for you to know, Sir."
He gave a bit of a bow and took a step back. There was not much else to report, but if Jockers knew the rumors of Chauvelin's fury like he thought he did, this small bit of information could get Jockers' career far.
The stunning effect of the words 'Englishman' and 'prisons' in the same sentence was more than completely obliterated by the thought of Sir Percival Blakeney. And as distasteful as the man was, he *was* English, he must have had *some* friends, and surely he was just loose-lipped enough to give out some sort of information ... after all, Chauvelin knew that Blakeney was linked to the Prince, who he knew for a fact had friends within the troublesome band of Brits.
... Aside from which, he was *terribly* bored.
Chauvelin nodded. "Yes, thank you -- where was he headed, if you know? I ought to have a look."
The agent was not in the practice of handing out *careers* for minor leads -- but at least the man's face was no longer strange to him.
"He was done tossed out of our offices complaining about paying a tax on his horse, Sir. What he was drug in there for, no less. Then I saws him head towards Rue de Lumier, where there is only two Inns. Maybes you will find him there, if it suits you." Jockers felt he had done well. Better than well and waited to see if he was further needed.
Again the agent, nodded, pulling his portfolio out of the corner of his office as he stepped outside, closing the door behind him. "Wonderful. Thank you very much --" Belatedly, he remembered that his opinion *was* considered important to *some* within this institution, even if it was only for personal gain. To please someone for a small favor, of course, could have lasting repercussions.
He started walking towards the road, waving the man after him. "Your name, Citoyen?"
"Jockers Citoyen Chauvelin! Balard Jockers!" He smiled watching Chauvelin go and called after him. "Good luck Citoyen!"
The agent made a note, nearly smiling, and strode off in search of the most interestingly annoying man he had ever met.
As soon as he ha entered the correct street, he took stock of the surrounding buildings: whether they contained anything that might be of interest to a frivolous Englishman, and the like. That done, he inquired at the first inn, failing to give an explanation; of course, such was not required from one wearing the tricolor as prominently as he.
Unbeknownst to he, as Blakeney sat in the belly of Haus de Pavillion to a meal of common fowl bird and rice, Chauvelin was one inn next over. The Baronet had not yet brought himself to inquire from the Inn keep about Hastings. Instead ordered a large bottle of wine in hopes to find courage on this topic where it could not be found.
His small brown riding cap on the bench at his side, the Baronet's cane lay across it, as if there might be threat of a wind or typhoon that would take the small hat away. Percy stared straight ahead now and then, letting the flames from the fireplace soothe him. His tall form looked backward sitting on the bench before the wooden table that was near too small. His long legs reached out across the other side where he methodically tappity-tap-tapped the tip of his boot against the side of the table. Once might think the blank minded fool needed a loo but was not honestly aware in thinking of that for the moment.
The unsuccessful agent made his way to the remaining inn, wondering briefly if he should bother to look up Blakeney while he was where he chose to stay, finding it awkward in at least a social sense -- but he was not, of course, making a social call. Such an event might have been grounds for an immediate vacation. Business was his duty, tactful or not, and so he stepped into the next eligible building.
He paid very little attention to the diners, as always, and stepped straight for the front desk. Caution was only imperative after other people made mistakes, of course.
Continuing to eat, the Scarlet Pimpernel's senses rejoined the living, hearing another enter. Slowly he glanced up and over, surprised to see none other than Chauvelin himself. Percy's fingers tightened against the spoon he was eating. Had Paul been foolish or had he?
Chauvelin leaned, for a moment, upon the desk, conversing with the receptionist, before being directed to a table, immediately behind. He turned, half-surprised, and thanked the host before scanning the small room, leisurely --
And there was Blakeney, sure enough. Hopefully the man was in a quiet mood, or at least an amiable one, enough so not to mind official company for a few moments. He quickly walked across the room, inclining his head just slightly to the seated Englishman before him, and *almost* smiled. "Would you do me the favor of giving me a few moments of your time -- Sir Percy, was it?"
"You remembered." Blakeney forced forth his widest smile, and his voice sounded as though someone gave him the biggest compliment on his attire. "Do sit Citoyen... Chopin, isn't it? Like the musician? I do like music, all those funny little notes flying about. Don't you enjoy hearing a banged out tune?"
Chauvelin blinked, mind stopping mid-thought. He shut his mouth, swallowing whatever question he had had on his lips (damned if he could remember *now*), and only nodded, politely -- "No, I'm sorry: Chauvelin. Hardly a musician at all, although I have some appreciation for it. What brings you to France, if I might ask, Sir Percy?" No sense in giving himself a chance to get distracted.
Where he would not speak of Hasting's death to others, Blakeney knew nothing that would excuse himself from Chauvelin's suspicions. True, he could offer the fabric excuse, but what would be done about Marguerite? She was not with him.
Another option that faded as soon as it crossed his mind was to speak on business. Fearful of overusing one that came so handy, Blakeney spoke simply to Chauvelin. "I have received bad news that a friend expired here. You know, life ends as quick as it begins, so they say." He tapped his chin and looked at Chauvelin.
"One wonders who 'they' are anyway. Certainly not some high official 'Citozen', mmmm? Of course, my reasoning must be old hat for you, hey old boy? Death is a rather common occurrence around here. I certainly hope you do not wish it upon me, friend." Sir Percy smiled at Chauvelin.
"... Of course not." Chauvelin wondered, *very* briefly, if Sir Percy had just made a political jab. It was a ridiculous idea, of course. The man very possibly thought 'political' was a type of pudding.
"But, you see, we do have certain issues with international travel, as I'm sure you know ... and it is, of course, my duty to inspect irregularities in that particular field." The agent folded his hands. "I'm terribly sorry about your friend -- if you give me his name, likely I could help with any details that might be missing." A dead Frenchman, the agent thought, would be nothing remarkable -- but an Englishman, from this particular circle, was very much something he would have -- *should* have -- heard about, and he wondered if Blakeney might be an unwitting link, after all.
"Heavens, you would have heard of Edward all the way here in Paris?" Blakeney knew Edward had met his fate sometime a while back and the thought of having to retrieve the body from an anonymous grave bothered him all that much more. Having to step into a cemetery and then to boot having to dig up the buried earth.
Sir Percy wisely side stepped the entire name, for he was in the
lion's den facing the devil himself. No cautious way was too small.
"Are you staying the night as well in this Inn? Drafty rooms I
hear. One could catch the gout and pneumonia and malaria in such
rooms. Luckily, I always pack a light lace for the face." What was
Chauvelin doing in this inn anyway? No harm in turning the questions
towards the Frenchman.
"I have access to the records which might list his unfortunate
situation, yes." The agent made a note of the name he had been
given; while he didn't always hear about everyday happenings, murders,
and the like, there were some things that probably should have reached
his ears, at some point. Perhaps he could extract a surname, later.
"And I -- no, I'm not staying, of course ... I merely heard that
the husband of one of my old friends had been seen in town, and so I
thought I would extend my greetings."
Sir Percy gave a gracious smile. 'So, news travels faster here than
they do in London.' he thought. "How simply scrumptiously
marvelous! You will join me in dining, will you not? It has been a
bit of time since you were my guest at the Manor."
As well as milk you for anything you might happen to have, aside from
inanities and -- face laces? Honestly ... "How *is* .. Lady
Blakeney?"
The smile on Sir Percy's face faltered a little. He would have to
just ask that question, would he not? A friend's inquiry. How to
answer, and be safe over such things?
"Lady Blakeney is rather well. She becomes a bit ill now and then.
Our English weather does not agree with her at times. Did you not
think she looked well on the day you came to visit us at my home?"
Again, he felt the need to speak on Chauvelin's visit. Blakeney
himself did not understand why. Some odd instinct.
Chauvelin remembered most clearly from his little visit Sir Percy
dashing out of the house with an open parasol, to be perfectly honest;
but he smiled, nodded, and made a sympathetic noise. "Yes, of course
-- the climate is considerably different. And I very much enjoyed the
chance to speak with her again, of course. It's been far too long,
and we were such good friends, and all of that."
And how had they ended up talking about England? Or Chauvelin,
for that matter?
It was a relief the man did not wish to stay for a meal. Of course,
he might try to arrest him all that much quicker. Tentively putting
one hand down, Sir Percy smiled and continued to eat his local gaming
bird. His other hand rested on his cane. If the time came, he was
willing to crack the skull of the other man.
"You should come soon and visit then. Any friend of my dear beloved
wife is certainly welcome in my home." Sir Percy near beamed. "Not
as drafty as this place, but you certainly will find something to
your liking."
"Yes, thank you very much, of course. I doubt I'll have occasion
to travel to England any time soon, really -- but I'm in your debt,
all the same." And now, if he could somehow force himself back onto
the subject, he might even get something accomplished. Chauvelin
raised one eyebrow very slightly, watching the Englishman's hand -- a
simple habit? Or defense mechanism? He was probably being paranoid.
"Now ... I'm sorry, I seem to have gotten off-track. I needed to
ask you a few questions -- about your friend as well, if you don't
mind."
Seeing the eyes shift down, Blakeney thought he had not made it as
obvious as he had. Already caught, he dared not move it from the
spot and began to play with the end, as Sir Percy tended to do.
"Please, do ask. If I can help in any manner to help me, I shall."
The agent dismissed his initial suspicion as silly (something he
would probably only ever do for Blakeney, the poor fop), and focused
instead on the face before him. Ignoring the man's response, as it
would have involved sorting out labored sentence structure and so on,
he simply began:
"If you would enlighten me, Sir Percy, as to how your friend found
himself here? I'm almost certain I would have heard of his death, had
he been a foreigner -- as I imply from his name. Our policies are
fairly strict, and such as that."
The man was good. Blakeney could see how Marguerite learned it.
With that, the thought slowly crossed his mind of *how* these two
knew each other. Did she learn it from him? They had been friends
and St. Cyr's death was by his wife's hand.
Blakeney played the game of chess well. He would get to those
questions before the man had to take leave of him. Until then, he
would move his pawns. "His servants said simply he was on
business." Since he had decided not to use that excuse for himself,
he certainly could use it for Edward. The English aristocrat played
up the position. "Edward was not really one to speak much to his
servants, for honestly, what would the man have said? How he died is
a mystery. As an fellow Londoner who belongs to the same society, I
volunteered to help, seeing as my wife is French and all."
It was said not to make sense, and Blakeney only hyped up the idiot
way of thinking of Sir Percy. He hoped Chauvelin would take the bait.
... It was almost *too* perfect. An Englishman had
left for France with practically no explanation at
all, had perished "mysteriously". But one flaw marked
itself across the perfect sequence of events that
Chauvelin's mind was creating -- Blakeney. If this
Edward had been at least in league with the
'Pimpernel', why had this idiot been allowed to come
to France at all? Why not someone careful, someone
inconspicuous, someone who had half a clue what they
were doing? There was something missing, but he was
as of yet not prepared to dismiss the man in question
from a link to the escapes.
"How very unfortunate." The agent's face betrayed
none of his calculations, but had a hard time becoming
anything *like* sympathetic. "I would be happy enough
to help set up an investigation, if you like --
mysteries of this sort are not the sort of thing we
care to leave unsolved. Our international relations
with your country, especially, are rather tender enough
as it is." Oh, *how* happy he would be -- a direct
investigation into this one pure lead. And all he
needed was a last name. An inn. Anything.
"If you wish to help, I am more than happy to have your advice, my
good Citizen Chopin.
"Er -- Chauvelin. Thank you. Do you have any
information, then, on where he's been ... disposed of?
Anything to go on would be helpful."
"The man who disposed of the dead body should be
able to tell me what became of him. It's not as if the body vanished
into thin air."
"How very kind of you, yes, to offer -- I'm sure your
friends were grateful. But tell me: is the
Frenchwoman in question not here, as well? It seems
to me she would appreciate the chance to come home."
He smiled. "She did have such good times here."
"Marguerite did not come with me on this trip." Blakeney did not
realize it, but his face fell a little, thinking of the times when he
and Maeve were inseperatable in this city. He was silent a moment
and then Armand Chauvelin's words became more clear. "You knew her
for a bit then eh? Good times?" Percy looked at his enemy. An
instinct he did not know he possessed reared up. The animal became
defensive and had he claws, they would have been bared.
Instead, Blakeney sat stupidly and tilted his head to one side like a
cocker spaniel with a question. Waiting on the words to follow.
The agent watched the Englishman's expression
carefully. He had no real dislike for the foreigner
-- aside from his country and his wife, that is -- but
somehow found himself repressing a very slight smirk
as the inane smile slipped a fraction of a degree.
The pure stupidity was as amusing as he could expect,
for dinner company, and if it had been unmarred by
British attitudes and unfortunate marriages, he might
have enjoyed it even more ...
"Oh, yes. We spent quite a lot of time together,
really ... very good times. That was during the very
heat of the revolution, of course -- we had quite a
lot on common."
"Really?" Sir Percy's foolish nature was overtaken by Blakeney's
pride. What in God's Heavens was that supposed to mean? "I love a
good story..." Sir Percy tried to regain his disturbed
composure. "Do tell me, what sort of..." he paused, trying to bring
the thoughts out of his obsessive head and forth from his tongue, "g-
good times and common quite did you share?"
It was all Blakeney could do to keep Sir Percy on the fore front.
Chauvelin wondered what Marguerite had told her
husband already; the man seemed a touch disconcerted,
although not knowledgeable, really. He was unsure as
to whether an Englishman would find the forthcoming
discussion at all appropriate (or even tolerable, for
that matter), but ... who was he to hide the truth
from the poor man?
"As I believe we mentioned upon my last visit, she
held a salon of which I was particularly fond. We
agreed on a good many things, and the discussion was
always enjoyable ..." He smiled, the most casual
expression he could manage. "Every woman has a few
men in her past, and vice versa, yes? How is her
brother? Promising boy, last I saw of him ..."
The fork that brought up the fowl meat to his lips stopped in mid
air. Was he honestly hearing the words coming from this little
bloody sod? 'Every woman has a few men in her past...' The idea...
impossible! Possterious to think! Blakeney's mouth had opened
slightly to receive the meal but it too remained slightly open,
frozen where he was.
Before he'd run to England, at any rate. A shame,
that -- he certainly wasn't stupid, and had the spirit
Chauvelin found so admirable among precious few of his
colleagues. Blakeney had taken away *two* of the
nation's valuable assets.
Sitting there, the lazy blue eyes felt a burn as he gulped and slowly
put down the spoon. 'Few men in her past.' This man. THIS MAN?!?!
Blakeney found himself taking in deep breaths, and finally it was with
only the strongest of wills facing the deadliest of foes that Sir
Percy spoke, "I take it then you knew my wife.... on a more...
intimate basis." Sir Percy smiled, but it was an odd sort of worked
grin.
Chauvelin frowned, "concerned", at the other man's
rather odd behavior, and saved his laughter for this
evening. "Ah -- I'm terribly sorry. I've made you
uncomfortable. I keep forgetting that English
sensibilities require a touch more reserve, during
conversation; horrible mistake, never mind for an
ambassador." Sir Percy hadn't know, then -- for a
moment he regretted imparting the information, but
then reconsidered. For whom might he have kept it
secret in the first place? For Marguerite? She cared
nothing for him, if that much.
"And once again, I've gone off track. Would you care
to meet some other time, concerning your friend?"
Wishing to ignore, or wishing he never heard any of this, Blakeney
did not acknowledge Armand's last question. Finally, he put down the
spoon and forced Sir Percy to continue on with his normal eating
mannerisms. Taking the cloth, he dapped at the corners of his lips
and smiled at his mortal enemy who most recently upped the ante.
"Think nothing of uncomfortableness. Just not something I knew of.
Of course," his near gritted teeth forced out, "it makes sense to
any man of the normal thinking capacity that you and my wife...." he
found himself pausing and intook a short breath, "were more of a
simple friendly basis. 'Good times', 'Salons' and all." His mind
betrayed him and Percy pictured this vile creature holding his
wife. Touching her. The Baronet had never felt such fury. Sir
Percy yawned. "Do tell me, with a revolution to run, how did you two
manage such.... well..... you know. Closeness?"
Sir Percy kept it simple and waved the napkin cloth about casually.
Inside, Blakeney held his breath for the answer he did not want, yet
could not stay away from.
The agent began to regret taking off on this
particular tangent -- Sir Percy was keeping him from
his lead, which was all he truly cared for at the
moment. Irking the man was certainly enjoyable (and
the poor dolt knew not the *half* of his wife's past,
it seemed), but not horribly important. He cleared
his throat, idly tracing something on the table with
his finger. At least he *had* succeeded in disturbing
him ...
In answer to the Englishman's question, Chauvelin
smiled. It was not a particularly conspiratorial
smile, or even knowing, or tight, or very sarcastic --
simply approaching bored. "Politics can't take up
every aspect of a man's life, of course. Everyone had
at least *some* time for social endeavors ... When
friends are unified in their Cause, as well, it
allows for even more frequent interaction."
If Blakeney didn't care to speak of his friend,
Chauvelin knew enough not to try to steer him towards
such business. He had the ominous feeling that the
man's capability to be insufferable was far more vast
that he had yet witnessed.
'Unified.' 'Interaction.' Blakeney was not satisfied with the
answer. Was his wife or was his wife not intimate with the scur
before him? Sir Percy gave it one last attempt. "What a story, eh?
Do indulge a foolish fellow. How long were and she, how do the
French say? Lovers, nest paw?"
Slaughtering the French language once more was the only way he could
keep it together. Pandora demanded her ill box be opened.
Chauvelin tried not to wince, and only barely
refrained from correcting him -- he
turned his grimace rather easily into a smile, a touch
more sincere than before.
"Oh, perhaps a little over a year. No more than
that, I think." Internally he noted that Sir Percy's
arrival in France had likely had some influence over
the tapering off of their relationship, but it was so
hard to *believe* -- that Marguerite could see
something in *this*. The man was an utter fool,
completely insipid, and rather rude besides.
His obsessive mind had not answer to the true internal burning
question. The ego decided he figured it all out and assumed the
worst. Margot may have been his first lover, but that sentiment and
bodily action was not given in return. Sir Percy sat there silent,
as if trying to comprehend the entire situation and Chauvelin's
words. Blakeney heard and knew their meaning all too well.
One year.
One whole year.
As he sat there in the theatre box, worshiping her silently, she was
going home with.... him. He said nothing and did not look back at
Armand.
"Sir Percy?" Chauvelin asked, leaning over the table
slightly once again, not entirely confused by the
man's silence. "Are you quite well?"
The lazy blue eyes glanced upward. "Well? Well, quite very well.
Yes. Well indeed." Sir Percy offered in a jovial sort of way, but
Blakeney could not pull it off to its entirety. The man was
wounded.
Regaining composer the best he could, Blakeney chatted along, "We
must do this again some time, hmmm?" He had enough of his meal and
enough of this man. The enemy - now for two very strong
reasons. "This certainly is a warmer climate, this France." The
Baronet from Richmond stood up fully, "This heat. Makes a man light
headed if he does not consume red wine.... You will excuse me as I
head to my room. I feel the need to lie and rest..."
He turned, and headed for the stairs, not even bothering to pay for
the meal. He could finish the score when the time came for the Inn's
final bill. Glancing back at Chauvelin, Blakeney said in a sing-song-
sickening way, "We must do this again sometime.... really....."
Aware that he had upset the man, Chauvelin stood as
well, placing his hands lightly on the table as he
nodded to the Englishman. A relatively unimportant
feeling of triumph had lifted his spirits a little;
but now, with his only clue about to go up to his room
and perhaps be lost for good, the agent felt his mood
chill.
"Of course, Sir Percy, if you're tired ... would you
like to meet in the morning?" The man *had* expressed
an interest in an official investigation, after all.
"I'd like to see this solved as quickly as possible,
you understand; I'm sure I could fit something in in
the afternoon as well, if that's more convenient."
"The afternoon would be fine...." Blakeney was quite shaken up. A
lot of information transpired into his cranium in the past forty
eight hours. Teresia. Marguerite. Marguerite and Chau.... he
couldn't even bare to think it.
With a wave of his hand, Percy turned and headed up the Inn steps to
his room. "Good eve...."
"Yes, of course. Ah -- shall I get the porter for
you?" Perhaps, Chauvelin thought, the Englishman had
had something to drink before his arrival. Few people
became so tired so quickly, unless they wanted to
escape someone's company -- and the agent was not in a
mood to be tactful.
"But you'll need this," he added, offering a calling
card. "Forgive me if I underestimate your knowledge
of the city; but I find that visitors are generally
more confused than they think."
It was with much disgust that Blakeney took the calling card. How
smooth this man operated. Such a scandler could certainly have
pulled a trick or two on his Maeve. He forced such images out of his
mind for now. The game was still at hand as long as the foes faced
one another.
Naturally, Sir Percy showed nothing of this and only kept that stupid
smile on his face. He even managed to sound grateful. "Oh, no
porter for me... One down and I'm quite the useless ballywagger, as
they say."
Looking over the card, since it was written in French, Blakeney
smiled and held it upside down. One last dig for the night. "A
thousand and two thanks Sir. Err.. City-zen. I say, I've no more
knowledge of this clever little town," nothing like insulting
Paris, "other than her main streets and inns. Quite quaint, the
layout, say? Not as bold as London, but not bad considering what you
all have had to work with."
The agent managed a tactful nod. He caught himself
gritting his teeth, and consciously relaxed his jaw
into some semblance of a smile. "I must say I don't
remember much of London. Rather cold ..."
Turning the card over again, Sir Percy puzzled over it. "I can
certainly see why visitors get confused. Say, is this in any
relation to those Cairolonical-type hire-low-graphics? You know?
The ones King Tut Timble, or whomever," he waved the card about
making the lace on his arm flutter, "wrote outside his giant
triangle."
Better to overplay than under. Blakeney hoped to make the other man
wince. "Or did they choose to write inside? Damn me but it never
rains there, I suppose outside works just as charming."
"... Hieroglyphics?" It was a Roman alphabet. There
were numbers, of course, but nothing terribly foreign
to the average Englishman -- of course, Chauvelin
reflected, if Sir Percy were a reflection of the
average Englishman, the nation was doomed. "Nothing
so exotic, I'm afraid -- just French. I apologize.
Translated: Number [Insert Street Number Here], Rue
[Insert Street Name Here]. My office is within. I
can arrange an appointment for you in the afternoon."
At least the man seemed to know that there was life
outside of Europe. -- If not *that* far outside of it.
"The afternoon it is then good Sir!" Sir Percy near saluted Armand
and headed upstairs. Blakeney went into his room and quickly locked
the door behind him. He stood there for a moment, letting the
darkness encompass him like a wet blanket. He did not bother to
light a candle.
The mind was obsessed with the images of Marguerite and Chauvelin.
The sweet nothings the two might have shared. What could *that* man
have said to her that would get her in his bed. Why did she go and
what things had they shared and done?
With that thought entering his mind, the silence was broken as the
Baronet from England felt for the night chest, and sweeping his arms
across, heard all the candle stands, coo-koo clock and his personal
items go crashing to the floor. The aggressive grunt he would have
let out remained stuck inside his chest. He would pay the innkeep
for the broken items tomorrow, blaming the clumsiness of Sir Percy's
stupidity. For now, Blakeney sat on the bed seething in torture amongst the darkness; for his mind filled the gaps that had been left open to wonderment.
Chauvelin briefly made note of his appointment in his pocketbook,
nodding to the departing Englishman. Utterly ridiculous character,
but a very welcome lead indeed, as it turned out -- the agent was
quite excited. But Blakeney (appropriately, he mused) was the only
piece that didn't fit, unless the man was a touch more intelligent
than he was letting on. But from what he had gathered from his visit
with Marguerite ...
He had seemed like a complete fool in London, as well, hadn't he?
And she had seemed somehow unhappy, although not what Chauvelin would
call surprised. As he stepped out of the inn and started on the slow,
contemplative walk back to his flat, the agent was conscious of his
mind wandering from its strict deductive trail, rambling instead onto
a warmer and more scenic little path -- but he made no move to stop
it. Marguerite might not have been a part of the puzzle, but
certainly the memory was pleasant, certainly there was no harm in
taking a few moments to recall.
Chauvelin stopped at the gardens' square, not entering, but rather
lingering on the edges. There *were* memories worth reliving, no
matter how content she found herself now, years later, with a fop of a
husband, and no matter how much Armand found himself guilt-ridden for
ever caring for anyone other than Fleurette's mother, now that the
girl was in town. Surely they had been happy, at some point, perhaps
only a short while ago.
Christmas in Paris (coming soon)
He was hopeless
He was the ultimate failure
And he could take no more
This cloak of negativity covered his mind and drove him closer to the edge. Made him careless and made him expose himself. Things, which he would've never revealed normally, he had shared with Percy now. He wish he could take it all back. He wish Percy wasn't there at the same time as the phantom of his wife appeared. He should've kept his mouth shut. Shouldn't have given her a second thought but he needed her. He needed someone but no one was there. He was all alone. And he has been ever since she was so brutally taken from his warm embrace. He had been looking. Looking for someone else to love and someone who'd love him unconditionally like he would love her but the few changes he had had all gone wrong and lead to more pain. Had hurt him and only made it worse.