Rebecca finally got to the guesthouse she had chosen. She snapped at
a bellboy to bring her things up to her room, and trudged there
herself. As soon as she was there, she fell onto the bed, exhausted
from her travels, and fell asleep.
An hour later she awoke, now alert and ready to work. She went out
and called a taxi, and told the driver to take to her to each of the
addresses Teresia had written down, as well as a few common
guesthouses Rebecca herself knew. At each place she asked if the
Comte and Comtess de Fontenay were staying there, but no one seemed
to have even heard of them. A bit disappointed but still confident
she gave the driver one last address: the one Chauvelin had given her
to contact him with. In a moment she was there and knocking on the
door.
Chauvelin, having woken at his usual early hour
(adjusting for the British hours, and the apparent
lack of any sun at all), was already looking for
something to occupy himself with when the knock came
at his door. He had not disturbed his daughter, for
she was likely tired from the journey.
The agent answered the door, in his typical uniform.
he motioned the woman in without a word, and offered
her one of the chairs near the entrance to the
parlour.
"I see you found your way well enough, then. Your
assignment?"
"Well," she said, "the Comtess is an...interesting enough person. I
met up with her at the restaurant you told me to, and we became
acquainted. I've set myself up as an idiotic frivolous girl who is
stupid enough to come *here* for a pleasure trip. I care nothing for
politics either, though I've somehow grabbed myself a Jacobin
brother."
"Good enough." Chauvelin sat as well, assuming she
herself had accepted his offer, bringing along his
coffee. "I'll try to secure you a pass to the
function they'll be attending -- though I don't know
very much about it. Now, what about ~them?" He had a
good amount of faith in the painter, really, but the
Spaniard made him slightly uneasy, when it came to
government business. Gods knew whose side she was
ever on.
She shrugged. "Well, the painter, or Teresia's husband, or whoever
he is, is extremely quiet. He must have said two words in our entire
conversation. As for the Comtesse herself, unless she's *not*
supposed to be playing an aristo, she seems to be a competent enough
spy." Rebecca paused and shook her head. "Really, Chauvelin, I don't
understand what I'm looking for. Of course she's going to badmouth
the Republic, that's the role she's playing. I’d be worried if they
didn't.
"You aren't looking for anything, no -- they are. But I don't trust
the woman, quite frankly, and you're to tell me if she acts in any
way suspicious." Chauvelin stood, thinking to deposit his emptied
coffee in the kitchen, but halted before he would turn his back to
his visitor. "I assume they are currently resting? Or have you let
them wander off already?"
Rebecca smirked and thought, and what makes you think you can trust
me? Not that she was planning anything against him. He was
paying her, after all. She laughed at his comment. "Actually, I guess
you could say I let them wander off. But not for long. I'm meeting
them tomorrow and we're going for a walk in one of the gardens or
another in this accursed city." As Chauvelin got up, she followed
him, eyeing the coffee cup he was holding and hoping he'd take the
hint. She could do for some coffee herself at the moment. "Oh, and
what's that 'engagement' you mentioned that I'm going to?"
Unsure of the extent of her loyalty, but somewhat
appeased by the idea that she had made contact
successfully with her targets, Chauvelin nodded,
making no further move towards the kitchen. "So long
as you keep your eye on them, I don't very much care
where you have to walk. As for the 'engagement', all
I know is that you'll be admitted -- you do have
something suitable to wear? -- without any trouble, if
all goes well. And you may do your own inquiring, if
you'd like to know the specific people you might speak
to."
"I'm sure I have something to wear...and.." Suddenly, a thought
crossed Rebecca's mind. All this spying in England the French
government seemed to be doing, it must have some connection with all
the Scarlet Pimpernel gibberish she'd been hearing. She knew very
little about the Scarlet Pimpernel, except that the name always
seemed to be attached to disappearances of prisoners. Maybe she
could find out more about him, and maybe even contact him; the more
she thought about it, the more it seemed he could be a profitable
ally. "...what's Teresia here for anyway?" She tried to make the last
inquiry sound as nonchalant as possible.
Chauvelin stepped into the suite's little kitchen,
depositing his own empty drink on the counter, and
pulling another down for his 'guest'. He allowed two
or three minutes to pass before he spoke again,
continuing only once he had set the
previously-hinted-at coffee on the worn end table near
the spy. As he cast her a questioning glance, the
agent wondered whether or not she knew precisely how
sensitive this information could come to be.
Sitting as well, ever graceful, Chauvelin watched her,
unfailing, as he spoke. "There is a certain Anthony
Dewhurst -- I don't know his title, I suppose it's not
important -- who has been shown to know at least
something about what we're looking for. No doubt
you've already guessed. But your main task, you'll
remember, is to keep an eye on the pair you're to
follow."
Rebecca sipped the coffee as Chauvelin spoke, and catalogued the
name of Dewhurst into her memory. She waved her hand in the
air. "Yes, yes, I know. Watch them two. And as for what we're looking
for," she leaned over towards him, "more information on that would
certainly be helpful." Then, as an afterthought she added, "Oh, and
just so you know, the name I've taken is Marie-Noelle Prouvaire. So
if Caburras asks anything about someone named Prouvaire, you should
probably say you've at least heard of him. That'd be my 'brother'."
Chauvelin nodded, reluctant to give her the specifics
of the others' quest -- she could be disposed of, if
necessary but not until some damage had already been
done. And if some mercenary of his own hire were to
leak government secrets, he could list quite a number
of people that wouldn't mind having his head ...
"So long as you understand what you're being trusted
with -- we are looking for a spy whom I believe is
within this particular circle. He is responsible for
a good deal of trouble in Paris ... any suspicious
behavior is our only lead, really."
Yes! She was right! In her mind, Rebecca was crying for joy, but
she was able to stay calm on the outside. "All right," she said, "I
think I understand it all, but I have one more question. How am I
going to explain to Caburras my presence at this engagement? It
doesn't seem like the sort of thing someone of my station would be
at, without connections, at least. I've been thinking, it would make
more sense if we could find a way to get either of them to invite me
to go with them."
"Yes, very good, find a way," was Chauvelin's reply,
as he thought privately that perhaps she should have
made herself out to be of higher status in the first
place. "Perhaps, if you're on such good terms with
them, you'll meet someone in the appropriate circle
and secure an invitation. I will leave that up to
you." He was certainly paying her enough.
"All right," Rebecca said with finality as she rose to leave. "Is
there anything else you would like to discuss, then?"
Chauvelin stood as well, mostly out of habit. "Not at
all. Come every morning that you can, I don't care
how early, so long as you aren't followed. I believe
I'll be out for the rest of today, perhaps tomorrow
... come by either way."
Rebecca was about to leave, but she remembered one final thing
she needed to ask. "Oh, Chauvelin, do you have any idea where your
spies are staying? I know they're not at any of these places," she
handed him the list of hotels and guesthouses she had checked, "and I
was wondering if you knew. It might be useful."
Halting a few steps from the door, Chauvelin nodded,
and supplied an address. "As far as I know, that is
where they should be staying -- doubtless you can
confirm it later. As for now, I suggest you find them
before they manage to elude your watch completely."
"Don't worry," she replied. "Like I said, I’m seeing them tomorrow.
I'll stop by here again after that, probably sometime tomorrow
afternoon." She stepped outside the door. "Till then, au revoir."
Rebecca left Chauvelin's house and went to the street, where she
called a cab. For today, she was done. And tomorrow she'd be meeting
with Teresa and her friend, and hopefully succeed in finding out more
about them.
As he bid the spy farewell, Chauvelin could not help, in spite
of his fiery distaste for England in principle, enjoying the early
morning air. The mists here were certainly nothing like in Paris,
and he was quite welcoming of cooler temperatures ... it was not so
much cold as it was refreshing, and so he decided to take advantage
of the situation. He stepped inside to grab his coat --
Fleurette was still here, of course. She had retired into the
next room the evening before, and was no doubt still asleep, as it
was barely dawn ... slipping into his coat and carrying his hat under
one arm, Chauvelin quietly stepped into her bedroom to leave a note.
On an envelope he explained his impending absence:
Chauvelin left the note by her bedside, and quietly exited the
inn to hire a carriage in the streets below. His attire attracted a
good deal of attention, it was true, but at least some of it was not
entirely negative. Directing the driver to an address he had stored
in his memory ever since his first meeting with another of his more
useful agents, Chauvelin wondered quietly whether this call was
perhaps not a mistake -- it made little difference to him the
reaction of those whom he was going to visit, but the woman he had in
mind was not precisely known to be hospitable.
After an hour or so during which he had no contact with the
morning rather than through a smallish window, the carriage halted
before an admittedly impressive mansion.
Fleurette woke shortly after Chauvelin had left and stayed in bed for
a long time, no point in getting up. She rolled onto her side and
saw the note, she read it quickly and sighed, "No reason to get up
before lunch I suppose."
Her mind wandered back to Paris as she got out of bed and dressed.
While Fleurette went through the motions of making herself something
to eat Victor entered her thoughts, and a bright smile lit up her
face. Sometimes, she decided, it was good to be alone.