I’ll Forget You

by Baroness Austen

It was a cool and very rainy September day in Richmond, the kind that ends up canceling late summer garden parties and keeping even the most determined of sportsmen indoors. The rain came in hard little pellets that pained anything they landed on as a swift wind carried them away as fast as they had come. Roads were very far from dry. There wasn’t a carriage or a soul to be seen in the village and the washing was taken inside to dry.

Yet in the midst of this late summer downpour, a man, appearing slightly tired but in good spirits all the same, galloped through the weather at a fast pace on a fine horse. The man was tall, physically attractive, and decidedly English. He had an air of easy going self confidence and was well dressed (if a bit excessively so) with the carriage of one who possesses wealth and education. He would have been considered very handsome, were it not for a certain lazy expression that escaped from eyes under half-closed lids, and a rather smug look that suggested pride in an intelligence which one could doubt (from the outside) the true existence of.

And now, most benevolent reader, since the same man is to play a significant role in this account of sorts, your humble servant the author will dictate to you his name and various other sorts of information you would like to know about his present state of mind. His name, the one bestowed upon him at birth, was (in it’s exhaustive entirety) Sir Percival Blakeney, Baronet. In fact, this name was not completely entire, as a result of two rather extravagant parents tacking on countless middle names after princes and uncles and dukes and business associates, etc. that their poor little son was outweighed by his names for the first few years of his life. Owing to the fact that a discussion on the subject of names does not add anything to the telling of this narrative, we will quickly move on to more vital details.

Sir Percival Blakeney, Bart., or simply Sir Percy as he will here to fore be entitled, was on his way home to Blakeney Manor after several weeks abroad. His belongings had been sent ahead, enabling Sir Percy to ride home with nothing but his thoughts and a rather dull-witted and non-responsive horse for company. To the common passerby (of which there were none that soggy September day) it would appear as if everyone’s favorite and most beloved dandy was returning to his Richmond estate after a weekend hunting excursion up north, a few days of parties and plays in London, yacht racing on the Thames, a fishing trip with his good friend the Prince of Wales, or perhaps a jaunt to Bath necessary to cure him of the fatigue caused by all this traveling. From the sleepy look on Sir Percy’s face, it certainly appeared that way (he was known to yawn and stretch often in company). The poor man just worked too hard trying to enjoy himself. Hardly could anyone guess Sir Percy’s fatigue came from an entirely different source.

As soon as he had reached British soil that morning (for he had indeed been out of the country), the lazy, bored look that had become a second nature to him immediately spread over his face. Fatigue? Well, that might occur after three weeks of vigorous mental and physical exertion in order to perform countless daring rescues in a limited space of time, but on the whole, just deciding whatever to wear for the journey home was faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar more exhausting.

Blakeney smiled to himself. It had indeed been a rewarding three weeks. All the thrilling sport one English fellow could ask for in the course of his life crammed into a small fraction of that period! The League had successfully pulled off fifteen rescues in just under three weeks, which must of set some sort of new record for them. Sir Percy knew he shouldn’t have taken such a huge risk, especially when putting the lives of his invaluable men at stake, but inventing new tricks to confuse and baffle Frenchies while constantly running into danger was a welcome mental distraction when his thoughts naturally turned to painful recollections of her...

He couldn’t help it. She was everywhere, even when he “escaped” to France, half trying to evade her obvious contempt for him, the other half searching for memories of the happiness they had shared there. It was, in truth, somewhat ironic that he would go to her home land, a place where people were suffering and persecuted, to find a “safe haven” from her scorn, but for him, France hadn’t always been so cruel. He had been happy there once, with her as his one precious companion. But every blissful memory was now a bitter one, and the faces of young French women in the present all reminded him of her’s in the past, though none were quite so angelic as she to his eyes. But none the less, Lady Marguerite Blakeney was a fallen angel, and every time he felt like forgetting it for the sake of even one brief moment of complete and perfect happiness, his honor forbid it.

It was difficult to come home to her, when Percy knew he would not be welcome, but he had learned something about himself early on in the course of his adventures that always brought him back to her. He needed Marguerite. Even amidst the harsh glares and the bitter words she fired off his English pride, he worshipped her whole heartedly and physically ached to see her face and hear her voice when they were apart. The times when they could just sit alone together in perfect silence, though few and far between, rebuilt his weary soul, giving his dismal coexistence with her one small spark of joy, because he knew she was happy in their silences too. It must have reminded her of the days when they could be together without the charades and the desperate attempts to hide true feelings. In the silence both could pretend they each had what they wanted: he - her love, and she...

What did she want from him? Blakeney turned the question over in his mind for the hundredth time. When they married, he had been certain she loved him. In actuality, he knew it for a fact because he had heard it from her own lips on several occasions, all of which he made a point to distinctly remember for when her coldness became especially hard to bare. Marguerite was not the type of woman to marry for material considerations; he thought he knew her well enough to be sure of that, and even if she was, she was so straight forward about everything, she would have told him her motivations at the beginning. In any case it was now obvious to him, as indeed it must be to everyone else, that Marguerite’s love for him had waned into pleasant indifference, sometimes good for teasing him in company when she felt especially benevolent enough to speak to him. Percy shook his head, trying not to think of her in such a cynical way, but what else could he do? His “beloved” wife had sent an entire family to their deaths at the hands of savage inhuman beings with a lust for blood, an action she seemed to regard as minute and meaningless as ringing for tea. It would not surprise him to learn Marguerite had forgotten about it all together.

And yet as his mind went wild with awful possibilities, the rest of his being screeched out that she could not be so unfeeling. He wanted so much to believe that the compassionate and gentle woman she had been before they married was not just an act she had put on to deceive him. What possible motive could she have for such a cruel deception? Unless... no. He would simply not believe she was a spy for the French government. One denunciation did not make Lady Marguerite Blakeney a French spy; people of all kinds in Paris did it every day- nearly all of them were just ordinary citizens. But still, the social position in which Sir Percy Blakeney had placed this young French actress so readily, did seem absolutely ideal for a French spy in pursuit of English secrets- political parties, a house in London, influential parliamentary members about Blakeney Manor every day- and she was such a demmed clever actress...

Might the cunning spy even know she was indeed in the house of the man her government would most enjoy getting their hands on? Had she already equated her own husband with the Scarlet Pimpernel and made moves to expose him?

Blakeney shut his eyes as tightly as they would go. It was physically painful for him to think of the woman he worshipped in such base and loathsome terms. Deep in his soul he knew that Marguerite had not married him simply to gain advantages as a spy for the French- that she was truly innocent of anything but the St. Cyr family’s blood, which she had shed so willingly. Now if only he could get himself to forgive her and believe she wasn’t even now adding to her crime countless others.

When Sir Percy opened his eyes, he realized he was just outside his own gates. Ridding through them, he took a deep breath and prepared himself for an uncertain reunion.

Sir Percy Blakeney’s faithful butler, one Mr. Edward Fisher by name, had been on the look out for his employer all afternoon, and when the rains came in full force, he became a bit concerned. Sir Percy had been expected to return from his hunting excursion up north four full days ago, and, though his Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales and the host of the trip, was always late getting back, Sir Percy’s prolonged absence from home caused more then one face to cloud with worry. Anxiety also stirred in the lovely countenance of Lady Blakeney, to the astonishment and secret delight of many an English gossip. Most fancied she cared not whether her inane husband lived or died, as long as he did either at a considerable distance from her (attributed to the fact that she was such a clever woman and his stupidity weighed heavily on her edgy French nerves). Never the less, Lady Blakeney’s apparent uneasiness over her husband’s safe return had allegedly caused her to miss two dinner parties and even a ball. This was simply unheard of, and rather a spot of bad luck for those gentlemen betting against the success of the rather precarious international union.

So it was with no small amount of relief that Fisher opened the door for his employer and, taking his wet coat and hat, ascertained that Sir Percy was indeed in the best of health, and quite unharmed by his prolonged absence. He answered the financial and business questions asked somewhat half-heartedly by Sir Percy, and then the enthusiastic questions about his new wardrobe coming up from London, and then the enraptured inquires after the plans for the upcoming cricket tournament, etc., all while keeping miraculous patience.

“Well, my dear Fisher,” Sir Percy drawled with a lazy foppish smile, “it appears I am not needed at my own demmed house and had no reason for returning at all! I fear me I’ve never had much of a head for figures, except when keeping score in cricket and measuring cuffs. You know, I do believe there must be some mathematical formula for the ideal tying of a cravat...”

“If you’ll excuse me, sir,” cut in Fisher before Blakeney could ramble on any farther about the perfections of his wardrobe, “but the lady of the house has requested I inform you upon your arrival that she requires your presence in the conservatory.”

“Indeed?” voiced Sir Percy amidst a rather lengthy yawn. “Can’t image why. Sink me if she don’t get along swimmingly by herself every other day of the week. Woman and their unpredictable fancies, eh what? Where did you say Lady Blakeney is, Fisher?”

“The conservatory, sir,” sighed Fisher, with his last valiant attempt at patience.

“Thank you, Fisher. I suppose that’ll be all,” Sir Percy said, battling with yet another impending yawn bent on obstructing his speech.

“As you wish, sir,” sighed a very relieved Fisher, who promptly turned and went.

Blakeney smiled after him and offered a silent apology (even though he rather enjoyed being so exasperatingly dull-witted) and turned somewhat uncertain steps toward the conservatory.

When Blakeney reached the appropriate part of the house, he noticed the smoky glass door to the conservatory was a fraction ajar. A forlorn loneliness set over him as he realized he could pick out her scent as it floated through the short distance between them. He couldn’t see her distinctly, for the foggy glass had distorted her image, but he could hear her cutting flower stems to the rhythm of a song she was quietly singing to herself. It was a French song, of course, Marguerite would never consent to sing in any other language besides her own, and her bewitching voice accompanied by her charming accent filled the hall with a strange sort of peace.

Blakeney shook his head to clear it, straightened up his already tall personage, fluffed his cravat and cuffs, then checked himself in a nearby mirror to make sure he looked as sleepy, brainless, and good-humored as was his custom. Satisfied, he reached for the door and slowly opened it.

She was sitting with her back to him at a small table that was covered with the various parts of dismembered roses and cut ribbons of all different shades scattered about in no particular arrangement. She did not hear him enter and continued to snip and hum, leaving him content to watch her in silence, a rare moment in which he felt he truly knew her. This enchanting lady with the sweet voice and charmingly disheveled roses- a malicious French spy? The mere thought of it was absurd. No, she was an angel, an angel come to grace the earth with one pure beauty for a short while and then to disappear, leaving those she had inspired with only the vague memory of her touch.

“What a demmed idiot you are, Blakeney,” Sir Percy thought with an indulgent smile for himself. “Been thinking about that blasted poetry stuff too much...”

And then, to make sure he would not over indulge in this small bit of bliss allowed him, knowing he might regret it later, Sir Percy yawned. Loudly and for the space of several seconds.

“La, m’dear,” he drawled, “Sink me if you ain’t pluckin’ those demmed things to beyond recognition!” He gave a slight chuckle at his own “wit”.

Marguerite spun around in her chair as quickly as she could without tipping it over, stared blankly at him a few seconds, and then, trembling ever so slightly, silently stood, her eyes never leaving his face.

Blakeney was a bit taken aback by what he saw before him. When looking at Marguerite’s back he had not realized how much thinner she was than three weeks ago when they had last parted. Her cheeks were ashen and hollow, and her face astonishingly pale, except for her eyes, which were red rimmed and swollen. Her glance was feverish and she took short deep breaths that shook her entire frame. He noticed she was holding onto the chair as she stood for balance.

Guilt shot through him before he even had time to wonder what was wrong with her. He should have been there sooner, he should have known she wasn’t well, should have known what to do even now. Even so he hid his thoughts from her under a lazy mask of indifference, looking her up and down with raised eyebrows and an inquisitive glance.

Marguerite ignored his unspoken question and posed one of her own. “Where have you been?” Her voice was thick and unsteady, entirely different from just a moment ago when she had softly sung to herself. But her face was determined, and she stared at him intensely as if to say, “I won’t talk about what’s wrong with me until I know the truth about you.”

Eager to know what was the matter with his wife, Sir Percy jumped (but not as eagerly as he wished, since she still thought him a brainless nincompoop) into the tale he had prepared beforehand should such a question arise.

“Well, you see, m’dear, I was about to part company with his highness after our hunt up north when the fancy took him to have me inspect his two latest coats. Of course, I couldn’t breech my duty and risk having the Prince looking drabby, he really has no personal taste, I’m afraid, so I agreed to have a look. The demmed things were awful. Had to have the whole affair redone. So we called the fool of a tailor up from London and had him rework the lace, the sleeves, buttons, lapels, coat tails, everything! And the man was such a complete numb scull that I had to explain to him at least five times what we wanted him to do every time something new came up. Sink me, but I had the worst headache known to man, and his highness was beyond reclaiming his royal patience! Anyway, I wished to send your Ladyship a message describing my dilemma, but I was so busy with the demmed tailor that I quite forgot, and I couldn’t very well leave his highness to fend for himself. So here I am, four days late, and begging your lovely self for pardon.”

Sir Percy made a low and elegant bow, then straightened and reached for Marguerite’s hand in order to kiss it, but she pulled away and turned her back to him. Percy kicked himself for dragging out his story so long and making more a fool of himself than he intended, but it couldn’t be helped now. He tried to begin again.

“May I inquire after your Ladyship’s health?” he asked humbly.

Marguerite spun around, a hauntingly sarcastic smile distorting her bloodless lips. “My health, Sir Percy?” she spat out with a mirthless laugh, “Does it not speak for itself?” She spread her arms and twirled around, letting him see how genuinely ill she was. Percy felt his soul twist with guilt and heartache at his wife’s gaunt form, completely confused by this strange turn of events. Yet all this he managed to hide under his foppish charade, and was about to make an inane comment when she spoke again in a harsher tone.

“Do you really care so little about me, that the Prince of Wales and his fine coats are of a greater importance to you than I, your wife? How can I even be sure that you are telling me the truth? How do I know you will not be somewhere else than you say, with other people than those you tell me will be with you? Can I know that you will even come back to me, or do you go to be with another woman, one who will put up with your mindless pursuits and insipid ways as I will not, simply because you lavish her with fine things?”

Her voice had risen steadily with each accusation until it broke under strain with her last charge. Percy stood momentarily dumfounded, too surprised to speak. Marguerite jealous? What was she getting at? Why was she acting this way? Another woman. The mere thought of it made him want to laugh aloud. But he knew he must quickly reassure her before his silence sent her imagination running wild, if indeed she had really been speaking of her true feelings.

“Indeed, madam,” he said quietly, briefly risking a serious tone, “you must know I regard your ladyship with the utmost respect, as I do the tie which binds us, and would never sever it so irreverently in the manner you suggest. My honor as a gentleman forbids it.” Daring to look her in the eyes without the lazy foppish charade for one brief moment, he saw her soften a bit and knew she believed him. Relieved, he went back to the brainless nincompoop before she could suspect anything.

“Besides,” he drawled, with a somewhat bashful smile, “what other woman in her right mind would possibly want me? I’m such a demmed bore, and I’m afraid every one of the fair sex knows it!” He let loose his customary inane laugh and slapped his knee to add effect.

Marguerite looked down at the floor, obviously disappointed he hadn’t remained serious for just one moment more. Her half smile was wistful as she said quietly, “You never used to be a bore, Sir Percy. Surely you can remember a time when fashion was not your only concern.” She faced him with a challenging smile.

“Zounds! My only concern, indeed! What ever about cricket?!” Sir Percy feigned being absolutely appalled. “I’ll have you know, madam, I am a man of many interests, and I’m demmed if I don’t resent the implication I do nothing but worship fashion!” Sir Percy then promptly flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his favorite traveling waistcoat, a speck which had been vexing him for the space of several minutes.

“There you go again!” burst out Marguerite unexpectedly, leaving her husband, for once, naturally stupefied. “You go on and on about meaningless things and you forget that I even exist! All you care for are parties, cricket, and fine clothes. What ever happened to the man I so admired in Paris? The passionate thoughtful man I was honored to call my friend and my lover? He has been chased away by a fool whose only desire is to laugh at himself, and I have lost the real man forever.” Marguerite turned from him for a moment. She seemed to be struggling against bitter tears she was too proud for him to see. But were they genuine?

When she faced him again, her expression was weary and a sad smile played on her lips. “Sometimes I see little flashes of who you used to be, Percy,” she stepped closer to him, her glance softly pleading. Percy was desperately trying to hold on to his last defenses, uncertain of her purpose in this emotionally charged scene they were playing, undecided about how to respond. Was this the trick of a clever spy, skillfully breaking down his charade to make certain what she already suspected? No, he told himself, it wasn’t like that. Would she purposely make herself ill for a plan the success of which was by no means guaranteed? She looked so pale, so drawn and lifeless. Her sickness at least was not an act. Was that what brought on her sudden eagerness for rightness between them?

“Just now, Percy,” she whispered, taking another step toward him, “just now I saw shadows of the man I fell in love with when I met you in Paris. Remember how you used to speak to me? Remember the times we would go walking in the woods and you would tell me of poetic things you’d read, and how you thought only of me when you read them? I can recall every word you murmured. But now the only thing close to poetry you care for is that stupid little rhyme you concocted to make a mockery of a brave man, the only one who can actually make you ashamed of the way you waste your life. You couldn’t let him get the better of you, could you, Sir Percy?”

Percy winced unconsciously. Marguerite’s words had stung and she had poured them into an open “wound”. Her impassioned speech had caused her to grow paler by the minute; he was sure she was about to topple over. Thinking quickly, he made her condition an excuse to change the subject.

“Your ladyship is really beginning to look quite ill. Might I have the honor of escorting you back to the chair, madam?”

He grasped her arm gently but firmly in an effort to help her back to the chair, but with surprising strength, considering her physical state, Marguerite stubbornly held her ground.

Tears gathered in her eyes as she stared up at him and said, “You won’t even use my given name anymore.” A heartbroken sob escaped her white lips. “You have forgotten it, I suppose, along with everything else that reminds you of the way you used to feel about me.” She looked away, ashamed to let so unsympathetic a listener see her cry.

Percy could no longer remain aloof. Real or unreal, Marguerite’s tears had always driven him crazy, and he could not bear to see her sorrow without doing something, anything, however small to comfort her. It no longer mattered what her motive for this sudden confrontation was- he couldn’t let her cry.

So, risking the future success of his masquerade and probably countless other things, he said gently, “Marguerite, please, I’m very worried about you and your health. Do sit down before something happens we will both regret.” Having never taken his hand away from her one arm, he carefully grasped her other in order to quietly reassure her and lead her to the chair.

Marguerite looked up into his face, her countenance entirely different now. Her expression had changed from heartbroken sorrow to loathsome, utter disgust, bitterness written clearly across her every feature.

“Something we’ll both regret? I’m afraid it is too late to prevent that, sir. I believe this very marriage, such as it is, happens to be something we both regret very much at this moment.”

This by far, was her heaviest blow. In his complete and utter agony, Percy forgot where he was. The world was not tangible to him any longer, and it spun around him mocking, laughing at his complete lack of power to control it. He desperately needed something to hold onto. Suddenly he realized he already had something in his hands, which he then clung to tightly, clenching his fists around it as to never let it go in this awful nightmare.

A sharp cry of pain shook him out of his revere, and in complete mortification, Percy realized what he had done. Marguerite stood trembling before him, clutching her brushed and throbbing arms to her body, choking back sobs of anguish. He had wrung those preciously thin and anemic arms without thinking, until they were blue and swollen. Percy cursed himself. He had meant to help her and now she was worse off than before.

A stiff mumbling apology tumbled clumsily from his lips. “Forgive me, m’dear, I wasn’t thinking, I...”

“No!” Marguerite shrieked at him, backing away and hiding her pain under a fit of rage. “Do not apologize to me, Sir Percy Blakeney, for things you feel no remorse for. I congratulate you! Not only have you succeeded in making yourself a complete fool, but you have also become a cruel, unfeeling man as well! You cause me extreme worry with your tardiness, make nothing of it when you get here, and then treat me with both cold indifference and compassionate concern at the same time, so that I do not know who you are or how to hope! You play with my emotions until I am dizzy with despair and can not understand what you want from me!” She was bawling now, great heaving sobs shaking her entire body. She grabbed onto the chair for support.

Sir Percy had always considered himself a patient man, but now, he had lost all the patience he had to speak of, and lost it to the very woman he worshipped.

“I, madam?” he shouted back at Marguerite, “I the one who treats you with cold indifference and compassionate concern at the same time? I who plays with your emotions? Sink me, m’dear, but have you had a good look in the mirror lately?”

“Don’t try to turn this all around, Percy Blakeney, and tell me you haven’t treated me like the lint on your precious coat sheaves. I know now what you wished me to understand since the beginning of this twisted and tainted union. You want me for show, your exquisite foreign prize acquired to look lovely in fine clothes at your side during balls and parties, not for sickness and in health, richer and poorer, la de da de da. But that is not what I want, Sir Percy. I refuse to be your foreign prize or look lovely at your side during balls and parties. Hateful man, it would be your own fault if I left you here and now!”

Percy couldn’t speak. He had been powerless to stop her as she tore his heart in half and trampled on it: this from the woman he still considered a goddess. Even after her tantrum and her malicious words, she was still his fallen angel. But the misery brought by what she had screamed into his throbbing ears remained and the knowledge that she hated him was like being unable to breathe.

Marguerite had stopped sobbing. She had lost her breath after using it all to cry and yell in her angry rage, and now she was gasping for breath and clinging with her bruised arms to the chair. She was now strangely calm, and fixedly staring at her husband to receive his answer to her accusations.

They continued to stare directly at each other for several minutes. Neither one spoke a word or moved an inch and the room was consumed in silence. How perfectly ironic, thought Sir Percy. Now even our silent moments are filled with her contempt.

Finally, Percy spoke. “Madam, you have made yourself perfectly clear. I will now remove my presence from the conservatory in hopes that you will hereafter find it more agreeable to you. Good afternoon.”

He moved swiftly toward the door and opened it in order to make a hasty departure. All of a sudden, something inside Marguerite snapped and she called out desperately, “Percy, wait! I didn’t mean...”

He shut the door firmly on her final plea and walked rapidly out of the house before he could change his mind. A decision made in that silent moment just before: he would go back to France and simply continue where he left off. There was no point in staying on English soil after that unthinkable argument; he would escape to France and forget it ever happened. Sir Percy’s trunks were still packed, all he had to do was hop on a horse.

Fifteen minutes later, Sir Percy Blakeney rode out his front gates without even having spent an hour within them. Had he looked back toward the house, an action which he purposely avoided, he would have seen the tear-streaked, sorrow ridden face of his wife, looking out the window after him, making one last silent and futile appeal for his return.

A crushed but numbed Marguerite watched from the window as her husband left through the gates and disappeared into the distance. She had no idea where he was going or when he’d be back, but with a strange second sight that often comes to people with her condition, she knew neither mattered. She had wasted this last chance to reclaim their former happiness with her demeaning insults and sudden rage provoked by his apparent “slowness” to understand her. Heartbroken despair threatened to overcome her as she realized that by the time he got back, it would be too late to apologize, too late to try again.

She wasn’t bitter or angry with him for going, indeed, she knew he had every right to leave after her tirade, but she couldn’t help being disappointed. In herself most of all. She should have been able to keep her temper long enough to talk some sense back into him. But it was so hard to do anything of late; she hadn’t possessed the strength to wait for him...

Emotional turmoil and standing for so long finally caught up with her and Marguerite realized she had become very dizzy. She knew from recent experience that she had better sit down before her weakened body gave up on her. An armchair by the fire in her sitting room seemed a welcome proposition, a quiet place to sort out what had just occurred. Marguerite turned from the window to venture upstairs.

But she didn’t get very far.

With everything that had happened in the conservatory that day, Marguerite had failed to notice that the carpet just underneath the windowsill had become quite frayed. As she had turned to go, a detached thread snagged the heel of her shoe, making her fall speedily to the hardwood floor, covered with only a thin carpet.

For a moment, Marguerite lay stunned and breathless, unable to discern why she was suddenly sprawled out on the floor. But then the all too familiar clutching pain engulfed her entire body, ravaging in every part of her and more horrible than ever before.

She rolled over slowly onto her side and curled up like an infant, hugging her knees to her chest. The room was spinning wildly and she shut her eyes as tightly as she could to keep from becoming lost in the whirlpool that threatened to swallow her. The pain was crushing her from all sides and she was too terrified to pull away.

Marguerite lay curled up in complete agony on the floor, losing conception of anything other than her aching useless body. Several minutes passed but she could not have told how many. Then, after a seemingly endless space of misery, Marguerite’s head slowly began to clear, and though the pain never fully left her, she could remember how to think. As soon as she had emerged from her fog, one dreadful and all consuming thing became instantly clear to her. Time was running out, and quickly.

This little fall had helped to speed along the inevitable which Marguerite’s will power was no longer strong enough to fend off. But one good thing did come of it. Had Marguerite been at all undecided on what to do, she was now free from any doubt. With uncertainty out of the way, the only obstacle that now remained between Marguerite and her fate was the trip upstairs.

Taking a deep breath, she began to gradually unwind her balled up form, baring her teeth against the pain that shot through her as she did so. This accomplished, she rolled onto her stomach and reached for the legs of her working table, which she could use to pull herself up to her feet. Little by little Marguerite rose. Leaning heavily on the table she slowly brought her knees underneath her and straightened out her back. When she was able to support herself on her knees, Marguerite allowed herself to rest a minute, taking a few deep breaths and placing her pounding head gently on the table. Revived for the moment, she was able to clamp her weary hands onto both sides of the table and ever so slowly rise to her feet.

The room spun for a few seconds before she grew accustomed to standing again, and for a moment Marguerite panicked at the thought she might end up on the floor a second time. But she was able to hold her ground, as well as the working table, and within a few minutes she was ready to take on the biggest challenge yet: walking.

Marguerite realized she could never walk out the conservatory, up the stairs, and down the hall to her rooms on these two unsteady feet and knew she would have to improvise. Eyeing the nearest wall, she decided she would be able to get that far unsupported and be able to work her way along it toward the door.

Daring to let go of her table, Marguerite managed to stand up straight enough on her own to stumble across the six feet between her and the wall. She reached it pale, breathless, and trembling but encouraged by her small victory and the fact she was still standing. After pausing a moment to calm herself, Marguerite began to move along the wall toward the conservatory door. This was more difficult that she thought it would be, for without hands to hold up the skirts of her dress, they crept underneath the heels of her shoes, making it awkward for already unstable feet to walk. But after many frustrations and thoughts of giving up, her purpose still called her forward toward her destination, and Marguerite at last reached the conservatory door.

She never fully remembered afterward just how she ascended the stairs and made it all the way down the long hall to her apartments. She had faint impressions of crawling up an endless staircase and then crawling down an endless hallway, feeling half-unconscious as she did so. Nevertheless, once she had reached her room, Marguerite was completely alert. For the next two hours, she sat at the desk in her sitting room, writing at a furious pace, desperate to get down all she wanted to say before her strength finally failed her for good.

It was at the very same desk that the upstairs maid found her that evening- slumped over her work, feverish, and unconscious, the pen still dangling from her limp hand.

And though its neighbor England was wrapped in that strange and melancholy peace, France still raged on with her bloodthirsty ways and heartless regard for her oppressed sons and daughters. No one was now safe from the swelling appetite of Madame la Guillotine, and to trust one’s fellow man was no longer an option.

There was not a soul in France left untouched by their country’s slow decent into obscurity, if indeed any French citizen had a soul left to be touched; even the children exchanged vulgarities in the streets, while they played out their crude and squalid games. These games nearly always involved mock trials and mimicked executions, and yet no one ever bothered to set these young things to right, for children pretending to behead their playmates had become a common spectacle. It was no longer appalling and barbaric. In fact, it was rather amusing.

On one dismal afternoon in Vendémiaire, as revolutionary France had taken to calling September, just such a game was in progress outside a rather dirty and dingy inn. This particular inn was situated in the heart of Paris, on a corner where the sun never fully did shine. On this specific day, the innkeeper’s wife, busy collecting the washing, looked on with motherly affection as her fine boys denounced, imprisoned, condemned, and decapitated the neighbor boys, who were far too rambunctious and tiresome in her opinion, anyway.

It therefore took her a few moments to notice the letter carrier standing beside her and hollering in a shaky and agitated falsetto, “Citizeness, a letter for you! Citizeness!”

The woman turned around impatiently when his squeak had finally pierced through her motherly revere, and held out a begrimed and callused hand to receive this bothersome letter. The carrier, however, waited until she had pulled two sous out of her soiled greasy apron pocket before handing her the aforementioned epistle. The innkeeper’s wife quickly snatched it from him. She never got letters addressed solely to her and she was by nature a very curious woman.

“But this ain’t me name, Ci’izen!” she screeched in disappointment as she looked down at the letter and found it was addressed to a J. Chaudieu c/o the Red Door Inn (which happened to be the name of her husband’s establishment). “You’ve got it all mixed up!”

“Check your guest list, citizeness!” huffed the letter carrier impatiently over his shoulder, for he was tired of this dense woman and had begun to walk away.

Citizeness Mardeux (for that was the name of this innkeeper’s wife) sneered after the retreating form of the impertinent letter carrier and grumbled under her breath, “Check ye guest lis’ ‘e says. Scum. Let’s see ‘im try runnin’ this ‘ere fine establi’ment!” And with that she promptly turned on her heel and strutted into the inn, for the exact purpose that scum of a letter carrier had just suggested.

Upon examining the list of her husband’s guest’s, Citizeness Mardeux discovered that there was indeed a J. Chaudieu among them and that he was staying on the second floor. She went promptly thither to deliver the ever so controversial letter in her possession.

Citizeness Mardeux climbed the stairs to the second floor (an endeavor becoming increasingly difficult for her) and soon reached the door of Citizen Chaudieu. She had her doubts whether he would be in his room at this time in the afternoon, owing to the fact that most men who stayed at the inn were workers who kept busy all day, but she was encouraged to find light coming from underneath the door and voices from behind it. Thus prompted, she knocked.

The murmur of voices within stopped abruptly. Then a man called out, “Yes?”

“A le’er fo’ Ci’izen Chaudieu," exclaimed the innkeeper’s wife, “May I come in?”

“Suit yourself,” answered the same man.

Citizeness Mardeux pushed open the door. She then saw before her two men, one sitting in a rather rickety old wooden chair while his friend stood leaning against the window. Both wore the rumpled and dirtied attire of coal heavers while their complections testified to many hot and sweaty hours in the sun. By the distinct expressions spread across the faces of both men, the innkeeper’s wife knew she had walked in at a tense moment. The man in the chair looked uneasy and concerned, while the one at the window appeared slightly frustrated. The latter, Citizeness Mardeux noticed, was very tall and narrow, and good looking in a rough sort of way. His hair, had it not been so streaked with grime, would have been fair. The woman paused a moment to wonder just how attractive he was without the layer of dirt plastered over his face, but the man soon broke her train of thought.

“Did you say you have a letter for me, citizeness?” he asked, speaking French with a slight accent the woman was at a loss to place.

“Yes, ‘ere,” she answered, giving the now crumpled epistle to the coal heaver. Citizeness Mardeux stood there a moment longer to watch him open it. She had gone to so much trouble in delivering it after all; it was cruel that she should be denied one little peek.

But the man had obviously caught on to her idea and was decided that he would not gratify it. He did not open his letter, but rather glanced toward the door in a silent request for her departure. Her expectations sunk. All this trouble and she didn’t even get to see what it was for!

“Thank you, citizeness,” he said, this time motioning toward the door.

The innkeeper’s wife frowned and stopped her foot. The day was not going well for her. “My pleasure, ci’izen,” she pouted and stomped out the door, slamming it firmly behind her.

The two “coal heavers” thought this excessively funny and began to laugh hysterically as soon as they heard her sulking foot steps on the stairs. This little episode with the innkeeper’s wife had broken the tension which was building between them a moment before.

“I think she wanted you to read your letter aloud for her, Blakeney!” chuckled the one in the chair. He spoke, not in French as his companion had before to the woman, but rather in the English used only by those members of elite London society, thus making himself a great paradox in his filthy apparel.

“Well then perhaps I ought to go down and have her read it to me !” suggested his friend in equally splendid English, reaching for the door.

The young man in the chair quickly protested.

“But then I won’t get to know what it says!” he exclaimed in nearly genuine alarm.

“For heaven’s sake, Ffoulkes!” laughed Sir Percy Blakeney, the leader of London fashion in the grimy dress of an even grimier coal heaver. Taking his hand off the doorknob he proclaimed, “you’re as bad as she is!” He gave his friend Sir Andrew a friendly slap on the back, who in turn smiled sheepishly. Percy went back to the window and Ffoulkes became serious.

As his friend struggled to open the rather tricky seal with his smudged and greasy hands, Andrew spoke up. “I know you don’t want to talk about it anymore, Percy, but about what I was saying before the lady popped in...”

Blakeney looked up from his letter sharply and said, “Andrew, please don’t...”

“Percy, I pray you, hear me out!” interrupted Sir Andrew. “You really ought to go home for a bit. You spent three long weeks here overworking yourself earlier this month, and then promptly come back again after hardly four-and-twenty hours in England! It’s been two weeks since then, Percy. Two weeks and you haven’t even noticed them go by. You can’t expend yourself like this anymore. It’s not fair to the league, to yourself, and especially to the people we’re trying to help. How can you promise them salvation and then offer them less than your best?”

Percy set his unopened letter down on the window sill and faced his friend. “We’ve been over this, Andrew. I am offering these people my best, and that means staying here to save as many of them as possible. England will have to wait. She can do perfectly well for a few weeks more without her beloved idiot to make her laugh at herself.”

“No Percy! You’ll wear yourself out completely this way. You push us all too hard now, you’ve started taking unnecessary risks, simply to taunt the enemy and...”

“Well, that’s where the fun of it all lies, m’dear fellow!” interrupted Sir Percy with his good-humored, slightly inane smile seen so often in company. “Do you think I’d jump into this whole demmed game so readily and leave home for weeks at a time every month if there was no sport in it?” He gave a rather anemic laugh, but his effort to change the subject was quite transparent and Ffoulks continued.

“Percy something is bothering you. The whole league has seen it. We’ve never seen you like this before and we’re concerned. Everyone’s become distracted and sooner or later something will go wrong if you don’t put a stop to this now. Go home and collect your senses, Percy, I can take care of things here. England will do you a world of good. Go home.”

Percy suddenly began to look very tired. He turned away from Andrew and faced the window.

“I can’t.” he murmured, his voice scarcely audible.

“Why ever not!” inquired an exasperated Andrew, jumping from his chair excitedly and nearly knocking it over in the process.

Percy looked back at his friend from the window silently. The heartbroken look that had spread across his face told Andrew the complete answer to his previous question.

“Marguerite,” Andrew said quietly, the word barely escaping his lips. His companion flinched visibly at the name and returned his indifferent gaze to things outside the window. Andrew felt like a fool for taking so long to guess at what had been troubling his leader. His expression changed from frustration to pity as he watched the strong man before him crumble under the despair his own wife had inflicted on him.

“But what happened?” Andrew finally asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. “You’ve never let her bother you like this before, not while we’re busy with what we’ve set out to do here. You’ve never let your relations with her get in the way of the league’s work. What has she done?”

Blakeney answered without turning around. “We had a ghastly row, she broke down into wretched sobs, and then proceeded to avow her absolute hatred for me,” he said flatly.

Silence then enveloped the room. Andrew felt heartily ashamed of himself for being so hard on Percy beforehand, but said nothing. His proper English embarrassment at showing intense emotion kept his mouth clamped shut. He was about to comment on how well the weather was holding for their exploit that evening when Percy surprised him by speaking again.

“She’s ill, Andrew. She could barely stand on her own feet without support from something else. And here I was, off frolicking in France, no notion at all she was unwell in the least. I should have known. I could have done something, if only something small. I can’t tolerate the sight of her suffering. Knowing of the unthinkable thing she’s done doesn’t change that. But she wouldn’t let me help her. She abhors me thoroughly.”

“That’s not true, Percy,” protested Sir Andrew quickly, “and it’s not fair. You can’t expect to know how your wife feels when you never give her the chance to tell you. And you can’t pronounce judgement on her for an offence mere strangers informed you she committed.”

“She told me she denounced St. Cyr with her own lips, Andrew,” Percy muttered in a monotone.

“But did you permit the poor woman a moment to explain herself?”

Blakeney at last looked his friend full in the face and said abruptly, “She didn’t want to.”

“You didn’t let her, did you?”

“Enough, Andrew!” Cried Percy, crossing from his place at the window to where his companion sat and putting a firm hand on his shoulder. He paused a moment, perfectly still, then brought a downcast face level with Ffoulks’ questioning one. He spoke in a low, melancholy voice saying, “It’s all over now. I can’t change what I said, I can’t change what I did, and I most certainly can not take away the appalling thing she’s done to the St. Cyrs. Don’t you think I’ve tried to forgive her without questions? Don’t you think I’ve searched endlessly for some upright reason that compelled her to have them killed? I wake up every morning without her beside me and think, ‘I could change this if I wanted to. I can simply ignore her guilty past and give into my desire for a woman who cares not that she sent mere children to a bloody and shameful death. It doesn’t matter, all that matters is that we belong together.’ But then I think of those children that lost their precious lives because of my wife and what she did and it does matter. I can almost hear them call out to me, ‘Please, don’t let this happen again. You mustn’t let them hurt the other little ones like us, the innocents that woman sent to such a horrible death. Please, for our sakes, you must never trust her again.’"

Blakeney paused and looked down at the floor, his hand still grasping Andrew’s shoulder. His voice had thickened as he spoke while his grip had changed from one that implored Andrew to stop questioning him to the grip of some one unsteady with sorrows. Sir Andrew was becoming increasingly worried about his friend and was about to call off the subject of Marguerite all together when Percy began again.

“With the knowledge of what has happened to those innocent children, my honor absolutely forbids me to submit to petty longings for a woman who, apparently, feels no shame because of her transgression. Even as my entire being cries out that she is nothing short of an angel here on earth, the truth remains unmistakably the same. I can worship her from a distance but I can not have her, and that is the end of it.”

The room and everything in it went still. Sir Andrew Ffoulks hardly dared to breathe. His friend had found a spot on the floor and was contemplating it silently, but obviously without much interest.

Then, Sir Percy, seeming to have forgotten all he had just disclosed to Ffoulks, went across the room to where he had left his letter and began another attempt to open it. Andrew stood and watched him without a word, a rather remorseful expression set on his young features.

Blakeney had none of his former difficulty in opening this letter and soon was casting a somewhat disinterested glance over it’s contents. The disinterestedness quickly faded into what looked to Andrew like deep concern as the color slowly rained from Percy’s face.

He looked up suddenly to Andrew and, despite his expression, said in quite an even and almost joking tone, “It looks as if I’ll be of to England after all, Ffoulks, and immediately at that.” Percy gave his friend a good-humored smile to assure him of everything’s rightness, as Sir Andrew appeared to be rather perplexed. “I trust you will be able to handle things while I’m away.”

“Of course, I told you I could a moment ago,” mumbled Andrew, satisfied his leader was going home, but horribly confused all the same. Sir Percy strode to the closet and put on his overcoat and hat, which were equally filthy as he. His pale face, though it now bore a pleasant expression for Andrew’s benefit, was decidedly resolute underneath. He kept the letter clutched in his hand all the while.

“But how long do you intend to be away?” Andrew managed to ask at last.

“I can’t say as of yet. If you need me for anything, send an express to the house in Dover. You know the one I mean, of course. No real names, as usual, and no specific places without the proper codes. I’ll find a way to get in touch as soon as I reach England in order to make sure that tonight’s salvage went as planned. I’ve told you already what I want accomplished by the week’s end. God grant it all may still be done.”

Sir Percy was now at the door with his hand on the knob, ready to leave. He cast a some what weary smile on his friend and said thankfully, “Bless you for your devotion, Andrew, and may God protect the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

He turned to the door and, upon opening it, joked with a low and gallant bow, “Commend me to my noble hostess, if you please, sir, for I doubt that I will have time to kiss her hand and pay my respects on the way out.”

The sound of creaking hinges woke Sit Andrew from his stupor and he exclaimed in urgency, “Wait! You haven’t told me why you are suddenly so eager to be in England when two minutes ago you thought it the most loathsome place in the world!”

Percy turned back to him, obviously trying to hide intense grief behind more jests. “La, man, you’re as curious as a chambermaid. Or should I say the lady presiding over this fine establishment?”

“Blakeney!”

Sir Percy’s expression became unreadable. He wordlessly trust the crumpled letter into Andrew’s hand and then promptly left for good without further acknowledgment of his comrade.

Confused beyond measure, Sir Andrew looked after the retreating form of his leader and then went back into the apartment to read this very perplexing letter.

He recognized the handwriting of Armand St. Just immediately. The letter (which was in reality no more than a note) bore the signature St. Just used when writing letters on the league’s business. Content in his knowledge of the sender, Sir Andrew read the note.

It was only one line. Short, to the point, but conveying volumes, all in one three word phrase. In that phrase, Andrew received all the explanation he required.

Armand’s note simply read:

“She needs you.”

Needless to recount, the same phrase that answered all of Andrew’s questions had before him posed a hundred for Percy himself. His journey home was as filled with wretched indecision and anxiety as the journey from it had been, and all on Marguerite’s account.

There was, though, one small comfort amongst all the uneasy reflections that were now to be borne. She needed him. For once it was not he, her troublesome lap dog, unwanted but still crawling back to his mistress in a feeble attempt to regain her favor, but she who needed the other half of their corrupted union. If she wanted him, then it was a necessity for him to go. He could not refuse the fallen angel anything.

He could now only wonder at just why Marguerite, or rather Armand, had sent for him. Of course, Marguerite hadn’t known where he’d gone after their argument and would have been unable to send him anything through the post, but it was all very strange that Armand’s message had been so short. It was not like him to simply write “She needs you” and leave it at that. Blakeney smiled at the thought of his long-winded brother-in-law. On any other occasion, he would have had a great deal more to say.

Percy winced once more as he again thought of what he had first believed after reading the note. He had been sure that those three horrendous words meant something about Marguerite’s illness, that she had taken a turn for the worse. He wished wholeheartedly that this was not the case and simply an overreaction caused by distracted thoughts, but indeed, it seemed to be the most logical answer of them all. He knew Marguerite was far too proud to send for him under normal circumstances if at all possible; she would have waited to speak to him until his dog like devotion brought him back to her side once more. And then she had been so unwell and so upset...

But it was well-nigh preposterous to think that so strong willed a woman as Marguerite would succumb to a mere illness in the prime of her youth, solely because she was unhappy in the relationship she shared with her husband. Was she suffering from depression and consequently refusing to take care of herself? Impossible! The stunningly clever and beautiful Marguerite St. Just of fashionable Parisian circles did not belong in the same breath with the ugly word depression.

And yet if she was dying...

No. He refused to believe it. The idea was absurd, utterly and completely insupportable. For heaven’s sake, the woman was only five and twenty.

Only five and twenty. What an unthinkable waste. What would he do then?

Percy closed his eyes and shook his head. These sort of thoughts hurt too much. While he remained uninformed of the facts they would continue to plague him on and on, extending no mercy toward a heart already overflowing with grief. After a while he simply became numb; there was no further misery left to feel.

Upon his arrival at Blakeney Manor, Sir Percy was quite bewildered to find an unfamiliar carriage pulled up before the front door. It appeared as if someone, a man short and rotund in nature, was getting out of the carriage and rushing, as best as one fitting that description could, up the great stone staircase to the house. Then, to the lord of the manner’s complete surprise, Armand St. Just himself opened the heavy oak doors for the man and ushered him in with a great deal of impatient haste.

Growing increasingly anxious and confused at this sight, a great urgency rose up in Percy to know what was going on. He jumped off his horse and ran up the steps, throwing open the great doors himself, and completely ignoring the crowd of surprised servants who immediately gathered round him. His eyes searched wildly about the entry for his brother-in-law.

Armand was standing at the foot of the grand staircase and leaning against the polished wooden post. He looked very weary and even more troubled. His faced seemed almost gray in color and there were large circles under sunken eyes which seem to have great difficulty in staying completely open. His whole manner spoke of suppressed despair. Armand was facing the man Percy had seen arrive a moment ago and had been talking to him in low grave tones when he looked up and saw his sister’s husband standing before them.

“Percy!” he cried out, his relief evident.

“What the deuce is going on, man?” Blakeney exclaimed, far to excited now to waste time exchanging pleasantries in his typically inane fashion . An unspeakable fear had begun to clutch at his heart; the unidentified man was carrying a black medical bag.

Armand, noticing that his brother-in-law was staring at the newcomer without a great deal of civility, said a bit more bluntly than he had intended, “This is Lord Robert Crawley, Sir Percy, a medical specialist from London.”

“Specialist?” choked out Percy through his tightening throat, finding it all of a sudden very difficult to speak or even to comprehend. He did not observe the hand Lord Crawley held out in his direction.

“Yes,” Armand continued with increasing discomfort. It appeared he was finding his task to inform Blakeney of present circumstances more difficult then he had believed it would be and preceded with a great deal of stuttering. “You see, he- he’s a a a doctor for, for ladies, yes and uh, especially those suffering from, from uh, illnesses, yes, illnesses of very, a very severe nature, and...”

“Oh dear God have mercy...” murmured Percy in a barely audible prayer as he came to full and horrible realization. “Where is she?”

“Er- I’m afraid, uh, that is to say- well,” Lord Crawley’s attempt at speech tumbled from his lips in no more eloquent a manner than Armand’s. “It really is not advisable, sir, to um, disturb her ladyship, your uh, lovely wife, at this - er - present hour. She’s had trouble sleeping and now that she’s uh, resting comfortably- uh- you know, it might not do her any real, well, any real good to receive, that is, to receive visitors at this - uh - this time...”

But Percy was half way up the stairs before the specialist had even finished, climbing them fast as he could and then running down the hall, frantic and half blind with desperation as he did so. This could not be happening, not to him, not to her...

He reached her room pale and shaking, suddenly lacking the strength to open the door. He knew that once he entered the room and saw her, all hope of there being some awful mistake would vanish and the truth would lie curled up in bed before him, ashen and sickly, wasted away to hardly anything at all.

Forcing down a heartbroken sob, Percy gathered the courage celebrated by all of England as the most heroic in its history, and silently nudged open the door.

The room was frightfully warm; the windows must have been shut tightly as soon as the mistress of the house had taken to her bed. A quiet but hot fire burned in the fireplace. The curtains were drawn, and as it was a gray day with but one candle in the room, her chamber was dark. But to Percy’s advantage, the candle was on the stand beside her bed, softly illuminating her sleeping features.

There she was, lying motionless in a great mass of coverlets that swallowed her entire figure. Her head and neck was the only part of her that was visible, both poking out almost timidly from the wealth of surrounding pillows that supported her upper body. He could hear her breathing softly as she slept.

So endearing was this picture of the sleeping angel that heedless of her former anger toward him, he rushed to her side at once. Down on his knees he fell, pressing his cheek to hers, his right hand cradling the other side of her face while the left buried itself in her hair. Her hallow cheeks were hot, not with the fire, but feverish, and her breath from up close sounded raspy and shallow.

Percy let a heartbroken groan escape his lips, a mistake since they were pressed up against her ear. Marguerite’s sleeping form stirred ever so slightly. Percy straightened and quickly removed his hands from her face as he realized she was waking.

Slowly, Marguerite opened her eyes. Percy held his breath, unwilling to anticipate how she would respond to his presence.

She stared at him blankly for a few moments, as if she was still half asleep or could not remember him. Then her gazed gradually became more focused, the light of recognition appeared in her eyes, and best of all, she smiled. Not the indulgent sarcastic smile she threw at him in company to mock his brainlessness, but a real smile, one that expressed happiness at his arrival.

Very gently Marguerite lifted her fragile arms from underneath the blankets and placed her delicate hands on both sides of his face, gazing searchingly into his eyes. Percy thought he would go mad with joy at her touch and her gaze, even amidst this bitter heartache and the despair that had threatened to overcome him. He put his hands over hers and turned his face to kiss her palms. She gave a ragged sigh at this action, as if she had been waiting for it so long she had given up hope it would ever come.

When he had faced her again, taking those precious hands and holding them to his heart, Marguerite opened her lips to speak. It appeared difficult for her, as if she had not spoken in some time and had to remember how it was done.

“You came back,” she managed at last, too weak to say anymore, but smiling sweetly through her attempt. Percy kissed her hands again and returned them to their former place.

“Of course, sweetheart, I came as soon as I received Armand’s message.”

She made another valiant effort to speak again, this time with more success. “Armand sent for you? The sweet boy. I did not think he knew where you had gone. I supposed there was no way to reach you, and it made me so afraid you wouldn’t come back in time...”

“Shhhh, you mustn’t say such wretched things,” he whispered comfortingly, “you’ll be back on your feet in no time, my Margot. Talking as if you were a hundred years old won’t do you any good.” He smiled reassuringly at Marguerite but knew his words were more to convince himself than anything else and saw from her face she had guessed as much. But the childlike delight which had sprung into her eyes when he called her “my Margot” was truly enchanting and soon claimed his entire attention. Her smile was truly angelic, lighting up her entire bring, almost as if she was already part of another world. This angel did not look as if she was in pain now and because of it, bittersweet joy wrapped around their contented silence.

They remained smiling quietly at each other for a few moments, when Marguerite tried to speak again. Her voice was almost childlike as she asked timidly, “Percy, would you do me a small service?”

“Anything, sweetheart.”

She blushed, then said with the somewhat teasing tone she had so often used when they were happy together in Paris, “Will you please move heaven and earth for me in order to open some curtains? It is so dreadfully dark in here!”

Percy laughed softly, kissed her hands, and crossed the room in order to do her will, but heartily regretting the fact it took him a moment from her side. Yet the opening of curtains did much for the gloomy atmosphere of the room, and as he once more took his place kneeling by Marguerite’s side he noticed the light reflected of her incredibly white skin leant her the countenance of a divine being. Her eyes were feverish, but sparkling all the same, and Percy felt himself at quite a loss for words, dazzled by her heavenly appearance, yet knowing all the while it testified to her quickly slipping beyond him.

In sudden urgency, he grasped her hands, unwilling to admit she was fading and desperate to hold her still, to make her stay long enough for him tell her the volumes of things he needed to.

“Marguerite?” he whispered, searching her radiant face earnestly.

She swallowed the gathering lump in her throat. “Yes?”

“You know I didn’t marry you simply to parade about a foreign prize or have a lovely woman at my side during balls and parties, don’t you? I never meant for you to be so upset with me that afternoon, I’m sorry I hurt your precious arms and lost my confounded temper with you, I’m simply ...”

“Nay, Percy,” she interrupted quickly and with surprising firmness. Then she stopped a moment to pant for breath after suddenly commanding vocal strength. She continued presently, a celestial smile returning to the brilliant white of her peaceful countenance. “We will not waste these priceless moments in apologies we both know are understood. I am not proud of the appalling things I said to you, but I know you have forgiven me already, simply because you are here by my side. You have atoned for everything you ever did to hurt me with your presence now. How could I presume to ask more of you?”

Percy stared at her in disbelief. She was indeed of another world. “Angel,” he whispered reverently. She smiled in quiet amusement and he bent to kiss her cheek. It had turned from feverish to icy in these short moments of perfect joy. He pulled his head back and looked down at her. Marguerite’s eyes had become increasingly unfocused, fixed upward and gleaming with an almost unearthly light. Percy’s chest tightened at this sight and he buried his face in her shoulder, desperate to hide his grief and be as close to her as he could. His hands had remained intertwined with hers, and her thumb traced tiny circles on his palm in a quiet endeavor to soothe him. As a ragged sigh escaped his lips, she gently pulled one of her hands away from his clinging grasp and placed in softly on his cheek, stroking it in perfect serenity.

“You can not give up now that I am here, my Margot, I still have so much more to say,” he mumbled into her dressing gown.

She lifted his head from her shoulder and held it with his cheeks in her hands, staring dreamily at the wetness beginning form in the corners of his eyes, almost as if it confused her . Her voice was sweet and distant as she murmured, “Now it is my turn to ‘Shhhh.’ And I will say, ‘Do not be afraid to live without me, dear one, for le bon Dieu intended that it should be this way, and so we must be content. We must obey. You and I shall bid each other farewell,” here her heavenly voice faltered and tears began to flow down her hollow cheeks. Still she continued on, determined to finish. “We must say goodbye, but for a little while, not forever...”

Marguerite’s speech collapsed underneath the heavy sorrow rising in her throat, and in the silence they stared at each other, his head still in her trembling hands, their faces inches from one another. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks as his ran noiselessly between her fingers, both of them nearly breathless with grief.

And then, unable to restrain himself any longer, Percy brought his lips to hers and gently kissed Marguerite. She was too weak to respond, but allowed his lips to remain over hers and did not pull away when his hands moved to cradle her head. She brought her palms over his shoulders and let them rest there.

Percy suddenly felt her go faint and drew back to see what was the matter. She was quite breathless and sank back onto the pillows as soon as he had let her go. Marguerite closed her eyes and took deep breaths, while at her side, Percy slipped into increasing panic.

“Margot?”

At his whispered question, Marguerite gradually opened eyes shining with tears of joy, her face more brilliantly white than an angel’s. She smiled sadly at him and whispered haltingly, “Oh Percy, I have one last confession to make you, before I go...”

“Marguerite...”

“Shhhh.” Her tears were flowing faster and her smile had slowly turned to a look of momentous sadness. Her voice was scarcely intelligible as she murmured brokenly, “You must stop trying to hold me back when we both know I can not stay. If you love me, listen now to the last and most important thing you will ever hear from my lips.”

She paused to take a breath, the action only draining her last ounce of strength. Lying still on the pillows for a moment, Marguerite looked upward and sighed, all the tenseness that had made her feeble body ridged slipping away from her. She looked back at Percy, her face suddenly apologetic and yet compassionate at the same time, as if she knew what she had to say would hurt him. Forgetting to breath, Percy watched her, hungrily awaiting these last precious words. With all her remaining strength she mouthed, “I have lov- rrrrrr.” Sighing out the last syllable she closed her weary eyes, lying peacefully against the pillows. The faintest hint of a contented smile now played about the corners of her bloodless lips. The next moment, she was gone.

But his wife’s last confession did not leave Percy so content as it had left her. Everything around him had gone hazy after the ugly word lover had dared to creep over Marguerite’s lips and taint her dying breath.

It was simply unthinkable. Not for one moment in the whole wretched course of the last year had he even considered the possibility that she was unfaithful. The thought never ventured to cross his mind that she was going elsewhere for the loving attentions of a husband her own so blatantly refused to give her. Then again, Marguerite had been a very passionate woman, and the denial of an outlet to those passions which she harbored would have been difficult for her. When Percy contemplated the ugly thought now, he realized how easy an affair it would be for her to carry on. He himself was hardly ever at home, and with all of England convinced he was the most delightful idiot the world had ever known, Marguerite and her lover would think it simple enough to deceive him. “The husband is always the last to know,” he remembered Lady Digby saying one afternoon at a garden party. At that time, London was particularly aflame with the latest scandal involving the divorce of beautiful Lady Lydia Churchill and wealthy Sir George. Lady Churchill had entertained several episodes with the footman. It had taken Sir George two years to discover anything was amiss, while the rest of London society had discovered the lady and her footman at least a twelvemonth before.

It was now perfectly obvious to the distracted mind of Sir Percy Blakeney that his late wife had indeed been involving herself with another man. But the object of her choice was not a petty footman, oh no, her tastes had been far to elevated for that. She instead would content herself with the influential agent of a government rising in power and in bloodthirstiness, a man who cared little for humanity and even less for aristocrats. In a word- Chauvelin.

Percy looked down at the figure of his wife, wrapped calmly in the peaceful sleep of death, the contented smile still hovering at the corners of her mouth. He could not forget her tenderness in those last few moments, feeling horribly confused and heartbroken by it. Perhaps she had retained throughout her unfaithfulness some remnant of the affection she had once felt for him in hopes he would return to her one day. She could have found herself wrong in thinking she needed love from another source and discovered so when it was already too late. But no, he could allow himself to believe it. Her tenderness had sprung from her goodness, despite her sin, in wishing her last moments to be happy ones in his memory and the desire to be forgiven for her gravest offence against him. Perhaps she had truly been sorry for deceiving her husband and had wanted him to know of the deception and her repentance. “How could you do this, my Margot?” he pleaded with the dead woman. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”

But “my Margot” couldn’t answer anymore; she merely smiled her reply, and Percy let his throbbing head drop in despair on her motionless chest.

It was then that the idea came to him. Revenge was not in Percy’s nature, and it wasn’t that which motivated his decision, but he soon found himself determined to return to France and, for an ironic twist of fate, seek out Chauvelin. The latter was still completely unaware of his being the Pimpernel, having failed in his task to find the English meddler in his own country, and detection would hardly be a great risk.

Percy stood hastily, quiet forgetting in his excitement from whence he had lifted his head, and was about to turn and go when a tug at his heart kept him back. He faced Marguerite’s lifeless body and, ignoring the fresh wave of desperation that threatened to bring him back to his knees, quietly bent over her and placed one last breathless kiss on her marble lips. Then he fled the room.

Yet her chambers still held one further claim on his interest that was however left quite unnoticed in his haste to leave them. Had he happened to glance at Marguerite’s bedside table, he would have there found a letter, sealed and addressed to him in her hand.

Chauvelin was in a foul mood. Perhaps it was quite the usual for him to be so, but nevertheless, this particular evening, he was in a very foul mood. Walking with an abrupt and firm step down the filthy Rue de Chanrivre, those who happened to notice the sable clad figure would have found his manner decidedly indignant, and the words which he murmured under his breath excessively vulgar.

The source of Chauvelin’s displeasure and indignation was none other than his colleague and fellow tyrant, Citizen Robespierre, who’s company he had just quitted. Robespierre had requested upon Chauvelin’s return from England that the latter would oblige him in giving a report of his journey’s success. When the illustrious citizen heard that his comrade had failed to discover the identity of the nation’s most hated and dangerous enemy, it is hardly necessary to relate he was most seriously displeased and told Chauvelin as much. Robespierre made it quite clear, through a series of looks and keenly worded phrases, that the accredited agent had best watch his next steps very carefully and make his dedication to the Republic evident, lest any action to the contrary season more uncomfortable things sentenced to him by the tribunal.

This naturally caused Chauvelin no small amount of irritation. He believed himself (and rightly so) to be a great deal cleverer than most, and on the whole, much better than everyone else as well, including a certain Citizen Robespierre. The claims of equality observed by the revolution he served mattered in name only to him, and he was not alone in thinking so, but rather secretly joined by all the self-loving sons of France who now governed her.

So it was with rather wounded pride, nursed by an increasing hatred toward Robespierre, that Chauvelin wove his way around the broken-down carts and grimy children of the Rue de Chanrivre, entertaining fervent hopes of finding an alehouse.

It was not as if he was too vain to admit defeat, though vanity had a great deal to do with the bitterness he now experienced with his recent failure. Chauvelin acknowledged completely he had indeed been as blind as every other man before him who had set out to unmask the Scarlet Pimpernel and bring him to “justice”. But he was only able to do so as he believed his defeat to be merely a temporary one, and that soon, very soon perhaps, the Englishman would surely take a misstep and land squarely into the palm of his unmerciful hand. Chauvelin may have fallen privy to temporary blindness as others had done before to him, but he was also a great deal cleverer than those others, and had never let even the most cunning of enemies escape him for long.

He had simply not held the trump card this time, that was all. Almost as soon as Chauvelin had reached England it was made clear to him that the blind goddess chance was not leaning in his favor. A series of events had taken place while he was in residence there which impeded his plans and left him few worthy alternatives. For one, Lady Marguerite Blakeney had utterly refused to help him “pluck” the Pimpernel from fashionable London society, to which Chauvelin knew he belonged. Fruitless were his efforts to lay hands on treasonable papers which would have proved her brother in league with the Pimpernel, thus giving him no claim on her future obedience. The cancellation of my Lord Grenville’s ball, due to a slight illness that had plagued the Prince of Wales, took away the opportunity for him to restate his earlier request of Lady Blakeney’s assistance, not that she would have changed her mind anyway. The prospect of visiting Lady Blakeney at her Richmond home was not a pleasant one; a meeting with her husband was far beyond Chauvelin’s will power. Sir Percy and his foppish inane ways irritated the accredited agent nearly as much as the Pimpernel himself: one for his brilliance, the other for his complete lack of it.

Without the help of Lady Blakeney, on whom the success of his plans leaned heavily, there was little Chauvelin could do. Unfortunately, he had no connections in London other than her ladyship (at least anyone with her influence worthy of blackmailing) and he had found himself quite unable to proceed for the moment. But now that he was back in France, new plans could begin to form, plans that did not rely on the assistance of outside parties. A twisted smile curled Chauvelin’s thin lips. Yes, he had a new idea alright, a horrible and evil one to be sure, but one that was certain to trap his most bitter enemy yet.

The smile quickly disappeared as Chauvelin remembered Robespierre’s total dismissal of his assurances that he would soon be ready to set his new, full-proof trap. The agent was promptly ushered out the door and told not to come back until he had the Scarlet Pimpernel safe behind bars or was on trial for treason himself.

Determined to make a fool of Robespierre and gain greater power for the destruction of others (which was the chief motivation behind anything he did), Chauvelin marched up to the "Le Champmathieu" and roughly pushed open the door. Perhaps a few brandies would soothe his injured pride and sharpen his fox-like wits for the further development of his plan.

The "Le Champmathieu" was not a very refined establishment, but then again, what French establishment was in such times as these? The air was stale and smelled heavily of the sweaty, grimy inhabitancy that thronged there every night. Evil smelling lanterns inside glass streaked with grease hung from old wooden rafters that looked as if they might give under the dilapidated ceiling at any second. The tables and chairs were wooden as well, and in far worse condition than the rafters. The floor was so filthy that no proper English adjective could do it justice. It’s condition will be left to the imagination of the reader.

This particular evening, the "Le Champmathieu", despite it’s atmosphere which reeked of teeming unwashed masses, was in no want of customers. Working men and woman of every trade (and every degree of uncleanliness) had descended upon the alehouse as soon the clock struck seven, thus relieving them of their various duties. All of them appeared to be very happy about their temporary freedom and expressed themselves through a great deal of boisterous noise. The women flirted and gossiped, the men roared with laugher as they played at cards, and each sex drank enough spirits to set the merry alehouse afloat. There were not many children present, but those that were sat and played in the dirt of a corner where they would not be a nuisance to their parents. The uproarious sounds that emerged from the lips of their elders did not frighten them as they would have any other child, and they did not seem to mind being caked in grime from head to shoeless toes either. An occasional kick from a drunken man had no lasting effect on the progress of their games.

Into this noisy, filthy rabble walked the clean, self-possessed Chauvelin. He looked on the crowd with contempt, but only because it was his custom to show hatred for any sort of humanity, and not because he was unacquainted with this class of it.

As soon as the worthy host of the alehouse noticed Chauvelin’s tri-color sash, he was quick to clear a group of drunken coal heavers away from a rickety old table (it was in fact, the best in the house) and humbly bid the agent to take a seat. He was quickly dismissed to find a bottle of his best brandy and be quick about it.

Taking what he best liked to smoke from his coat pocket, Chauvelin lit it and gave the routy bunch a once-over. They where indeed a pathetic lot. Most were too drunk now to see straight, much less stand up, and it was beginning to show in their half-witted smiles and inane laughter. Chauvelin shuddered as the scene before him brought to mind the nincompoop who’s smiles and laughter were always half-witted and inane, without the aid of liquor. Even Chauvelin, who could keep a cool impassive face longer than anyone, was exasperated at the end of two minutes conference with Sir Percy. The man was impossibly stupid and completely without sense. Chauvelin, who rather liked to hint at things instead of saying them outright (it added to the foreboding mysteriousness of his character), found it completely impossible to converse with the Englishman, as his simply refused to understand the implied point. As Chauvelin enjoyed being the source of fear and trembling to all around, the fact that Sir Percy remained perfectly calm and good humored in his presence irritated him to no end. The general menacing shiftiness that radiated from the accredited agent, making everyone else uneasy, seemed to have absolutely no affect on the brainless favorite of London society, in fact, his brainlessness left him completely unaware of any radiation at all. How a woman with the intelligence and wit of Marguerite St. Just had ever ended up married to him, Chauvelin was at a loss to fabricate.

He was beginning to grow impatient with the worthy host and the increasing amount of time it was taking the man to retrieve a bottle of brandy, when something caught his eye. A small group of men, undoubtedly the dirtiest in the whole room, sitting at the table in the remotest corner of it. There were four of them, all young men. At first they had captured Chauvelin’s attention because of the subdued manner in which they conversed with each other, leaning in toward one another over the table to speak and all wearing stern expressions. This was uncommon enough in the "Le Champmathieu" to draw a great deal of attention to them, but the men were left quite undisturbed by the merry drunken folk around them.

Curious, Chauvelin tried his best to get a better look at them. Who were these solemn-faced workers to hold a serious conversation in such a noisy place as the alehouse after laboring hours? It was suspicious, and anything suspicious in Chauvelin’s mind was immediately to be investigated. It now occurred to him that at least two, perhaps three of them of them looked vaguely familiar. But the host soon came bustling up to him with the brandy, interrupting his train of thought and looking a very sheepish for his tardiness.

“You must forgive me, your honor, but my kitchen boy knocked over a stack of glasses and the broken pieces had to be swept up before...”

“Never mind that, man, just give be the blasted bottle and be off with yourself.” Chauvelin was in no mood to put up with another fool.

“Yes, your honor,” mumbled the man, who was obviously very afraid of the power this government agent in his alehouse held, despite the calms of liberty and equality observed by his revolutionary nation. He wasted no time in backing away as he was commanded.

Then, an idea struck Chauvelin.

“Citizen Landlord,” he said abruptly, calling the man back.

The owner of the alehouse looked as if he would have much rather retreated than hold another three seconds conference with Chauvelin, but dutifully came back to the table.

“Yes, your honor?” he asked, voice trembling, hands shaking.

Chauvelin’s thin lips twisted into his customary sarcastic smile. How he loved to see humanity subject to near terror before him. This fool was a vast deal more obliging than that idiot Blakeney.

“I don’t suppose you could tell me, Citizen,” he started casually, leaning back in his creaky wooden chair, “just who the young workers are that sit in the corner table and talk amongst themselves so reservedly?”

The man’s mouth hung open dumbly. It appeared his was at present too frightened for verbal communication. Chauvelin’s hand reached into his pocket and let the coins there clink together. Everyone could use a little encouragement now and then.

“That’s Citizen Gaubert with his younger brothers, your honor,” said the man, attempting to swallow the fear in his throat and let the words tumble from it at the same time.

When the Citizen Landlord had recovered from the coughing fit that followed, Chauvelin had another idea. Not for one moment did he believe these men were “Citizen Gaubert and brothers”. They seemed all too familiar to him now, and he did not have a “Citizen Gaubert” amongst his acquaintance. Therefore, they must be up to something and Chauvelin was not about to let them get away with it.

“You know, citizen,” he remarked, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a few sous, “I do not think this table suits me anymore. I prefer the corner, where it isn’t so loud.” He pushed the money across the table toward the worthy host, who was now looking quite sick.

“The corner, your honor?” he asked, failing to comprehend Chauvelin’s wish to be relocated and hardly realizing the coins that had been nudged in his direction.

“Yes, the corner, you fool!” he exclaimed, growing impatient. He really did not enjoy the company of half-wits, even if they were afraid of him.

Scared to death, the owner grabbed Chauvelin’s money and the brandy bottle from the table, then quickly led him to one that was just a few yards from where the group of men were sitting. He told the men occupying it to get the heck off the bloody chairs and relocate themselves to the empty table, which Chauvelin had just left, if they knew what was good for them. Grumbling but too drunk to care much (and noticing some rather attractive women beckoning on the other side of the room) the sunburned, scruffy workers gave up their table.

Satisfied for the time being, Chauvelin curtly dismissed his pale and quaking host. He took the seat at the table which caused his back to face the four men, preventing them from seeing his face. Turning ever so slightly, so that he could hear their conversation, Chauvelin pulled up the collar of his coat to hide his profile. He would be able to get a good look at them this way and still avoid detection.

Chauvelin was hardly surprised when he recognized the faces of Lord Anthony Dewhurst, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, and Armand St. Just underneath generous layers of dirt. The fourth man he did not know by name, but was sure he had seen him before in England with these other young men. It was well known that Lord Dewhurst and Sir Andrew were the most trusted and enthusiastic members of Scarlet Pimpernel’s league, and Chauvelin was fairly certain that St. Just worked for the Pimpernel on a regular basis. It then followed that the unnamed man belonged to the league as well.

An ironical smile played at the corner’s of Chauvelin’s mouth. It appears I didn’t need your help after all, Lady Blakeney. Your brother will condemn himself one way or another and regardless of whether I give you the chance to redeem him.

Having thus identified the group, Chauvelin turned a little away from them, flipping the collar of his coat back down so he could hear better. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the young men staring at each other, melancholy and indecision playing funny tricks on their features. All but St. Just looked as if they were struggling with disbelief. Curious, indeed. For a moment, Chauvelin worried that they had finished speaking and would get up to leave without sharing anything with him. That would not do. But to his relief, St. Just at last broke the silence and said quietly:

“Now that I’ve told you everything, what do we do?”

His voice cracked on every other word and Chauvelin had to strain his ears to hear him. St. Just sounded very tired.

“What can we do?” asked the unnamed gentleman of his comrades.

“Ffoulkes? Have any ideas?” It was Dewhurst speaking. “He left you in charge.”

Sir Andrew was obviously not pleased with being expected to come up with something on the spot and. He said roughly,“Tony, what good does being in charge do when he hasn’t left me any instructions for days? If he doesn’t show up soon, we’ll be sitting on our hind-ends with no idea what to do while innocent people die. I haven’t seen him since he left to find out what was wrong with...” Ffoulkes stopped abruptly and eyed St. Just, looking suddenly sheepish. The latter did not seem to notice. He had taken to playing with the frayed cuff of his soiled sleeve.

“Well, gentlemen,” said Dewhurst, leaning back to stretch, then remembering himself and scooting his chair in closer toward the table. “It appears that there is very little we can do but confront him.”

“I’ve attempted that before,” mumbled Ffoulkes, with an almost sulking tone. “Failed miserably. He doesn’t speak about...” another sideways glace at St. Just, “about her .”

Chauvelin’s eyebrow’s furrowed. Told you everything? Left in Charge? Her? To what did all these phrases tend? It was fairly clear that the Scarlet Pimpernel had left Sir Andrew Ffoulkes in charge while he himself left France to take care of something. Apparently that something was of a delicate nature and, if the wary glances of Ffoulkes meant anything, in direct relation to St. Just. But what was this business about a woman? It had never occurred to him that the actions of the Pimpernel were in any way affected by a female. What in the world was going on?

“We needn’t make him speak about her at all,” protested Dewhurst. “That is hardly necessary. The only thing that needs to be said is that we’re still fighting. Simply because life for him just got harder doesn’t mean we’re giving up. We swore to him we never would. Don’t you agree, Hastings?”

The fourth man who now had a name (and had been staring blankly into space during Dewhurst’s speech) started and glanced quickly at his friend, doubt creeping across his face. “I don’t know, Tony. He hasn’t given up, that’s obvious enough. Who do you suppose rescued the Marque de Chaminade and his family last week? And the Taffanels? We certainly didn’t. He’s still up to the exact same game as before, but for some reason he’s been avoiding us. If the Scarlet Pimpernel’s hiding, we won’t be finding him until his ready to come out.”

“Surely you aren’t suggesting that the man pulled off two dangerous rescues in one week by himself!” cried Sir Andrew. “It’s a coincidence; the Chaminades and the Taffanels got lucky. The guards were clearly at fault for being negligent and lazy, and considering the fact that those guards weren’t us , I think it’s high unlikely he had anything to do with it.”

“Come, come, Ffoulkes,” exclaimed Dewhurst as loudly as he dared, “You don’t think Chauvelin rescued them do you?”

Chauvelin had been so absorbed in the meaning behind their conversation, that he hardly recognized his own name had crept into it. So the Scarlet Pimpernel was striking out on his own and abandoning the league for some unknown reason? Perfect. A man bereft of companions is always much easier to trap than one with friends to fight on his behalf.

“Gentlemen, this isn’t getting us anywhere,” commented Hastings. “I think we’d all agree that this situation isn’t as hopeless as it looks now. Knowing our leader, he’ll take a moment to grieve, and when he’s ready, he’ll come and find us. It can only be a matter of a few days, perhaps even hours before he seeks us out. The Taffanels and Chaminades are proof he still has our cause at heart. He simply needed time before he could become our revered leader again. Despite the opinion of every lady in England, the man isn’t a god- he’s not immune to human suffering. When a man loves a woman like he loved her, he doesn’t become reconciled to the fact she’s gone overnight. But he’ll be back, I’m sure of it.”

After a brief moment of silence, Dewhurst muttered indignantly, “It just isn’t right. He shouldn’t have to bear this, not alone. The most horrid thing in the world should never have happened to the bravest and best of men. Why couldn’t it have been one of us? Any one of the nineteen would have been honored to suffer in his place.”

The table went silent once more, each of the four lost in his own reflections. A few yards away, Chauvelin’s sarcastic smile slowly crept into full affect. This was indeed getting better and better. A man detracted with his sorrow and avoiding all companionship was amongst the easiest to catch and imprison. He cares not whether he lives or dies. Chauvelin made a mental note to search the apartments of both the Chaminades and the Taffanels. Now if only the noble followers would mention their leader’s name!

Ffoulkes was the first to speak this time. “Alright, gentlemen,” he said slowly, “this is what we do for the time being. I have instructions for the carrying out of three more rescues, the Faures, Perilhous, and the Gannes. We make sure those families are safely on their way to England, then split up the league and send a few men to wait for him at each of the rendevous points . We can get a message to the others some time tomorrow, or later tonight if any of you have orders to meet up with one of them then. Fair enough?”

St. Just finally spoke up. “I am at your disposal,” he remarked, if somewhat half-heartedly.

“I, for one, am all for it,” said Hastings.

“Well done, Andrew. You’ve succeeded in being a great deal more level headed than I.” admitted Dewhurst, giving his friend an week smile.

“Well, let us hope we can all keep our level heads without our gracious leader to guard them. We must not stray a hair from his original plans if we are to have any hope of disguising the fact we haven’t a chief. Under no circumstances are those demmed murders they call a government to suspect the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel is in operation without a Pimpernel. Our lives won’t be worth a broken cricket bat if they do.”

Chauvelin’s sarcastic smile stretched his thin mouth thinner.

Suddenly and without warning, the mood at the table entirely changed. Self-satisfied, drunken smiles illuminated the faces of Dewhurst, Ffoulkes, and Hastings, who cast smirky glances at each across the table. Droopy St. Just still looked as if he had been hit by a speeding hay cart, but now it appeared as though he had simply drank more liquor than he could hold with dignity. One would guess by the faces of his “brothers” that this was the source of their amusement.

Dewhurst stood and stretched his long limps with somewhat exaggerated movements. Speaking French in a loud and rather dramatic voice he yawned, “You may sit ‘ere as long as yer like, Philippe, and drink as much as ‘r crazy grandmotha’, but Henri and I ‘ave business to tike care of, isn’t that right, man?”

Hastings stood too and slapped Dewhurst on the back. Smirking he said to Ffoulkes in ghastly French, “Paul’s got a gul waitin’ out side for ‘im. Wants me to have a loo’ ‘for ‘e decides what a do wif ‘a.”

The table erupted with uproarious laughter. Ffoulkes slapped the table and his standing siblings looked as if they would fall over laughing. A drugged half-smile crept over St. Just’s dazed face. Chauvelin had to admit it: these men were good at playing the common working citizen. What a great pity it was their cursed leader was even better.

“Ha! Anutha gul already, Henri? You shoo don’t waist any time ‘oppin from one to the next, Citizen Lova’! You leave a trail a broken ‘earts ten miles long,” shouted Ffoulkes, nearly falling of the chair in his merriment.

“You two go along, now,” he said, when everyone had remotely recovered. “ ‘ave a loo’ at yo gul, and I’ll keep an eye on old Louis while you ‘ave yo fun. Poor man can’t ev’n stand up straight as it is!”

Dewhurst and Hastings gave Ffoulkes a rough pat on the back and took their leave, shouting something along the lines of “ ‘ehave yerself, Philippe!” after them. As Chauvelin was far to intrigued now to go simply because half the party had left, he stayed behind in case Ffoulkes and St. Just would begin talking seriously again.

After ten minutes of silence, in which Ffoulkes did nothing but smirk at his “brother” and St. Just nothing but stare at the ceiling, the agent was about to give up. But then St. Just seemed to recover his senses. He sat up straight in his chair and said weakly, “Andrew, I don’t think I can do this.”

Ffoulkes was surprised to hear his friend speak so and agitated that he had used his real name. He leaned forward, and speaking so quietly that Chauvelin could barely hear him said, “What’s the matter, Armand? Why not?”

St. Just’s face took on an extremely pathetic look. “I miss her,” he mumbled lamely.

Her? Was this the same mysterious woman the four members of the league had been discussing before? But what woman had connections with both St. Just and the Scarlet Pimpernel that would send them both into agonies over her death? Chauvelin had been slightly acquainted with Armand St. Just when he lived with his sister in Paris. He never knew him to be in love with anyone, but that had been a few years back. The only woman St. Just had deeply cared for then was his sister, and surely...

An idea came to form in Chauvelin’s head. Perhaps Lady Blakeney, desperate to escape the brainlessness of her inane husband, had found solace in the arms of the dashing Scarlet Pimpernel himself. That would explain why she had refused to help him find the man and send him to his death. Now Armand St. Just, her cherished brother, and the Pimpernel were both morning the loss of, presumably, the same woman. Marguerite Blakeney. But that would mean she was dead. No, thought Chauvelin. Surely, that is impossible. People like Marguerite St. Just did not die young. He dismissed the whole idea completely.

All this had passed through Chauvelin’s mind in a fraction of the time it takes to recount.

Ffoulkes had his undivided attention when he made movements to speak again.

Giving St. Just an indulgent and understanding smile, Ffoulkes patted his shoulder. “I know you do, old man. I don’t pretend to be able to compare your suffering with any I have ever known. But you must be strong and bear it a little longer, for the sake of those we want to help.”

“I keep telling myself that, I do! But I can’t stop thinking about her. I see her face before me all the time, I even dream about her every night. I can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if I had know just a little bit sooner that something was wrong. Maybe she would have survived. But when I came to her side it was too late. It’s my fault she’s dead.”

“Armand, that’s insane. From what you told us fifteen minutes ago, her illness was too severe to reverse even before you found her dying. Forgive my bluntness, but Lady Marguerite Blakeney would not have lasted another day simply because you knew she was slipping away months ahead of time. It was beyond even the doctors; you were not at fault.”

Chauvelin did not often experience surprise, and it was not a sentiment he enjoyed. Lady Marguerite Blakeney was indeed... dead? Why hadn’t this information reached him before? And why did her death have such a profound effect on the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel? Could his former assumption possibly be correct?

St. Just looked as if he was about to shed his masculine dignity in grief and a few tears with it. “But look what Margot’s death has caused, my friend,” he choked. “Our leader is out of his mind with remorse and pulling a disappearing act. The League is barely hanging on as it is. None of us know how to think straight. Andrew, what will happen if he never comes back to tell us what to do? We’ll be powerless, absolutely powerless!”

Ffoulkes squirmed in his chair and tried to look anywhere but at St. Just. Then he took a deep breath as if he had decided on something and leaned in closer to his friend. In a low voice that was scarcely audible he muttered, “I received a message from him earlier today. He wants me to meet him tomorrow evening.”

Chauvelin’s pulse quickened and St. Just’s eyes grew large in surprise. “Why didn’t you tell the others...”

“I didn’t want to get their hopes up. After all you told us, I wasn’t sure he’d follow through. I had my doubts to start already. If I told them he was coming and then find tomorrow that he changed his mind, what would I tell the league? They would become more discouraged than before. We must stay strong, at any cost!”

St. Just slowly nodded his head in understanding. Chauvelin was going mad. When? Where was the Pimpernel going to meet his second? Tell the bloody fool!

Armand St. Just might of read Chauvelin’s mind because his next question was, “Where are you meeting him, Andrew?”

Ffoulkes was uneasy and almost ashamed for a moment, but then decided to tell his friend. “The Taffanel apartments, where they were hidden before the escape.”

St. Just’s brow furrowed. “But then, if he wanted to meet you there, don’t you have reason to believe he’s the one who got them out? Why did you disagree with Hastings?”

Ffoulkes sighed in exasperation. “I don’t know! I haven’t the time to think about such things! All that’s for certain is he’s left me a note saying to meet him at 7:30 in the evening tomorrow at the Taffanel apartments. I have too many other responsibilities to find out just who rescued the people that occupied them!”

St. Just’s face turned downcast at this reprimand, but Chauvelin couldn’t resist smiling evilly. It was a good thing the poor boy was so infuriatingly curious.

Looking rather sorry for his companion and the latter’s discomfort, Ffoulkes rolled his eyes and took St. Just by the shoulder. “Come on, old man,” he said, helping him to stand. “We’ve spent enough time in this dreary hole.” And with that, they shuffled out the door.

Chauvelin remained at his table, thinking. The Pimpernel was secretly meeting his most trusted follower the next evening. For what purpose? Did he intend to join them again? And what could the death of Marguerite Blakeney possible have to do with any of it? Smirking, Chauvelin realized it mattered little. As long as he knew where that cursed Englishman would be tomorrow evening and 7:30, he had no motivation to care about anything else. How easy it would all be now, after so many months of countless and humiliating failures. Stake out the Taffanel apartments at a quarter to seven. Take a few soldiers to have them on the look out for Ffoulkes and capture him when he made his entrance. And he himself would be in the apartments, waiting for his trapped and helpless prey. Chauvelin smiled as he anticipated the look that would cross the Pimpernel’s face, whoever he was, when he realized it wasn’t his comrade but his most dangerous enemy that waited for him.

What a delightful prospect.

Percy glanced at his pocket watch. It was 7:00, and time to go.

After a week of agonizing over what to do, he had finally decided to confront the League. But in small steps. First Andrew, and then perhaps Tony, Hastings, and Armand, and after those three, the rest. It was a big improvement from where he had been upon arriving in Paris eight days ago. A meeting with any member of the League then would have been too difficult, even Andrew, and especially Armand.

But he had come a long way in those eight days, especially where Chauvelin was concerned. His sudden decision to find the man and question him about the relationship he had with Marguerite seemed almost silly now. If the man ever was her lover it didn’t matter now: she was dead.

Determined to shun more painful thoughts of his wife, Percy roughly shoved open the door of his apartments and headed with firm steps out the inn. He was dressed implacably this evening; there was no need to be dirty when he wasn’t trying to blend in with the crowd. It was true that a wealthy English aristocrat was nearly as hated in Paris as a treacherous French one, but the difference was that the English had English gold to offer the citizens of France, while their own aristocracy had been robbed of their riches long ago. Therefore the extravagantly wealthy and undebatably English Sir Percy Blakeney need not fear to walk out among the French citizens, as long as his pockets remained full of money and his shadowy deeds a secret.

Ahead of him, Percy saw through the fading light of dusk what appeared to be a head of dark reddish curls. He winced. The truth was he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Marguerite, even while he set out to whisk away the Chaminades and the Taffanels. Their rescues had been relatively difficult to accomplish alone, but doing the work he’d sworn to do had been the only way to escape painful memories that threatened to overcome him. But even the thrill of adventure had not fully blotted out her face that forever haunted his thoughts.

He knew he was still in love with her, though she was dead and though she was unfaithful. His every waking moment was consumed with the need of her, and even sleep did not fully take away the grief that came with her absence in death. It was altogether a hopeless situation. Perhaps in time and with the help of the League, this painful existence would be numbed, and life would go on as planned, if that was possible.

Percy shook himself from his thoughts and realized he was nearing the Rue St. Jacques, the street where the house he had kept the Taffanels in was located. There he would meet Andrew. Taking a deep breath, Percy braced himself and walked onward.

Chauvelin paced the Taffanels’ recently evacuated drawing room. He was growing slightly impatient, and a little worried that the Scarlet Pimpernel would not show up at all. The capture of Andrew Ffoulkes ten minutes before was no comfort to him. True, the man was the temporary leader of the hated League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, but it was the real one who was the biggest threat. Perhaps he had seen his friend taken prisoner and then quickly retraced his steps to whatever shadowy corner he had emerged from. But this did not agree with Chauvelin’s impression of the Pimpernel. The man clearly had the deepest concern for humanity in distress, and if one of his comrades was in trouble, it was highly unlikely he would run off simply to save his own skin. So why hadn’t he come?

Chauvelin’s musings were abruptly interrupted by the sound of someone fiddling with the doorknob. He stopped immediately and held his breath. Could it be...?

His hopes were promptly and thoroughly dashed when to his complete and utter amazement, Sir Percival Blakeney, Bart. entered the room, stooping slightly to fit his tall personage under the low doorframe. His glaze searched the apartment, and just as he opened his mouth and took a breath as if to call out for someone, his lazy blue eyes collided with Chauvelin’s dumbstruck figure, blankly gawking at him from the corner.

They stood there staring openmouthed at each other for several seconds.

Percy, who realized immediately that Chauvelin had somehow intercepted his plans, began wondering after Andrew’s safety. He decided the best thing to do in his present situation was act the inane fop, in case Chauvelin was still in doubt about his identity. Perhaps he would get to find out about the agent’s side of his relationship with Marguerite after all...

“Chambertin! Sink me, what an unbelievable coincidence! You’ll forgive my silly impudence just now, but I had thought you were still over the Channel enjoying our demmed foggy climate, what? I trust you’re well?”

“Chauvelin.” was all the other could manage to say, his temporary shock melting into the irritation he always felt when confronted with this nincompoop. What if this fool stayed long enough to interfere with his plans for the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel?

“Oh, of course, Shovelin’! How could I forget? And after you’ve reminded me so many times! I’m ever so sorry, dear fellow, it’s just that I ain’t so good with the French lingo, names especially, and you must prompt me every now and then.”

He smiled inanely and then began to wander about the room, picking up random objects and looking them over with an indifferent gaze. He yawned and took off his hat, throwing it onto a nearby couch.

“Never cared much for that old thing,” he said, glaring at the hat with contempt. “It gives one the most dreadful headache and doesn’t suit me at all. The color is monstrous. I hate black. Don’t you agree?”

Sir Percy glanced carelessly over at Chauvelin in application of his opinion, then looked sheepishly down at the floor when he noticed in what color the agent was dressed entirely.

“That is, I don’t like black on me. But then again, it might look well on...” his voice trailed off as he stepped back to take in the whole of Chauvelin’s attire. He frowned.

“No,” he said finally, “no, I’m afraid it doesn’t flatter you either. Mind you, ain’t bad, but it certainly isn’t good. And who tied your cravat this morning?” Sir Percy gasped in horror. “The man should be shot! Or I suppose you would prefer the ever popular ‘Madame la Guillotine’. Demmed uncomfortable thing she is, what? Such a lot of blood! Give me a proper English firing squad any day!”

“Sir Percy, please!” Chauvelin managed to interject before the brainless idiot could continue. He felt his faced getting hot and his nerves throbbing. Did the man never stop?

“I say, old man, no need to lose your head!” Sir Percy said, a trifle agitated. A silly grin crossed he features when he realized what he had said. “Sink me, but that’s rather humorous. ‘Loose your head’. Don’t you agree, Chaubertin?”

“No, Sir Percy.”

“Oh. My apologies.”

Though completely exasperated, Chauvelin was finally able to ask the question he had been meaning to since the beginning of the interview. “What brings you to these apartments, Sir Percy?”

Andrew, you fiend. What the deuce have you done with him?” wondered Percy.

Blakeney looked up from fiddling with the lace on his cuff, his face blank. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Why are you here?”

“Oh, here! Yes, well, I had some friends staying in these apartments and- very drear aren’t they? I can’t image who would want to live amongst such vile colors! Odd’s life, they’re ferociously ugly!”

“The point, Sir Percy, I pray you, the point!”

“The point? Oh! Oh, yes the point! I see what you mean. Forgive me, sir. Well now anyway, back to the point. I- eh, what was it again, m’dear fellow?”

Chauvelin took a deep breath and counted to ten, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Then very slowly he repeated, “What are you doing here... sir?”

“Ah! Sink me, now I remember! Yes, I had some friends staying in this shabby establishment, much to my chagrin, and I am here to pick up a small trifle they overlooked while moving out.”

“You know the Taffanels?” Chauvelin asked in genuine astonishment.

“Better than my favorite tailor.”

Chauvelin smirked. He could hardly image Sir Percy being conscientious enough to remember what he had been sent to retrieve longer than the space of a few seconds. “And you’re here to pick up something they missed, am I correct?”

“Indeed you are, sir. Clever you Frenchies, eh what?” Sir Percy returned his attention to the spotless cuff he was removing invisible lint from.

In spite of himself, Chauvelin was intrigued. The presence of this brainless idiot in the Taffanel apartments, especially at the time the Scarlet Pimpernel was supposed to appear in them, was incredible to say the least. Without a doubt, he had been the last man Chauvelin expected to walk through that door, and hardly a candidate for the meddlesome English spy who had been a thorn in France’s side for so long. Sir Percival Blakeney, Bart. would die before condescending to disguise himself in the attire of a filthy and ill-dressed laborer.

“To where have your friends gone?” asked Chauvelin, wondering just how much the inane fool knew.

Percy’s acute mind sprung into action. “What’s the man after?” he wondered. “How much does he know? Best give him a hard time to see just how desperate he is for information.”

“Hmmm, demmed uncooperative piece of...”

“Sir Percy...”

“Lace.” Blakeney accomplished whatever he was trying to do in the perfection of his cuff and looked up. “What? Did you say something, Shufflin?”

“Chauvelin.”

“Isn’t that what I said? Huh. Anyway, I could have sworn on a stack of fabric you asked me a question just now. You didn’t?”

“I did.”

“Oh. Yes of course you did! Odd’s fish, I think I must be a bit deaf in this ear,” he said pausing to ponder a moment. “No, no I think it’s this one..”

“YES, SIR PERCY, I ASKED YOU A QUESTION AND THAT QUESTION WAS...”

“Where you can get the name of a good tailor! Oh, my dear fellow, I am ever so glad you’ve finally asked! You simply cannot image how I’ve despaired over your wardrobe! You’ll forgive me, sir, but, Gad Zooks! You are the most misguided dresser I have ever clapped eyes on! Who ever told you that coat flattered your figure? Zounds! May I ask you where you left your lace? I am...”

“SIR PERCY, PLEASE!”

“What?”

Chauvelin counted to twenty this time. Making sure to speak slowly and clearly, he said, “If you would be so kind as to oblige me in paying the strictest attention to what I have to say in the next few moments, without interruption, I would be sincerely grateful. May I proceed?”

Blakeney’s good humored and half witted smile lit up his countenance. “Of course, my dear sir, say whatever you please, I shan’t detain you. I’d be vastly happy to hear anything you wish to convey, you’ve only to speak it.”

“Good. Now, I should like very much to hear from you where your friends, the Taffanels, have gone. Do you know?”

Sir Percy thought a moment, as if he was trying to decide whether to be difficult or not. He chose the latter. “To England, sir. Bath as a matter of fact. I suppose all the demmed hubbub round here gave them a need to cure the fatigue.” He paused to yawn and plopped his lengthy self onto an armchair. “Not a bad idea...”

“But, Sir Percy, if your friends have moved to Bath, surely they would have taken their furniture and other trinkets with them,” replied Chauvelin, glancing casually around the fully furnished drawing room.

Sir Percy did not answer. This confused Chauvelin for a moment, until he realized the man opposite him had fallen asleep in the armchair. He was breathing very peacefully, not to mention loudly, and his mouth was wide open.

“Sir Percy.”

Blakeney jumped in his chair. “What! What’s going on?”

“I’ve asked you another question, sir.”

Sir Percy stretched and yawned again. “Was I asleep? Zounds, and I didn’t even know it. You must forgive my incredible rudeness, sir, I had no intention of losing wakefulness in so undignified a manner, but I was up playing hazard most of last night and thinking of going to bed early this evening...”

“That’s all well and good, Sir Percy, but now will you please do me the honor of answering my question?”

“Of course, sir.” He sat up straighter to reply, then promptly turned sheepish and asked quietly, “It was...?”

Chauvelin, who was getting used to this by now, had no problem in repeating, “Why have the Taffanels left their belongings here in Paris when they have moved to Bath?”

“Oh! I’m sure I don’t know! Rather eccentric, those Taffanels. Perhaps they simply wished for a new set of furniture, and so they moved to Bath in order to have an excuse to purchase one!”

Chauvelin rolled his eyes. “And you are certain they left of their own free will?”

“Why of course they did, man! You think anyone was forcing them to buy furniture in Bath?”

Chauvelin had now passed the point of no return. This unexpected meeting with Sir Percy Blakeney had worn far too much on his nerves, and he was now inexpressibly infuriated. The only thing he desired now was revenge, not matter how petty, on this irritating fool.

He smiled sarcastically as a nasty thought came to into his head. “How is your wife, Sir Percy? It has been so long since I had the pleasure of renewing her acquaintance in England.”

His remark had it’s desired effect. Blakeney’s jaw tightened as he grew slightly paler. His face lost it’s appearance of carelessness and he slowly got up from the chair. He walked to the window and said solemnly, “Perhaps you haven’t heard about Lady Blakeney’s recent illness, sir?”

Chauvelin’s cruel smile widened behind Sir Percy’s back. “No, sir, I confess I have not,” he said in perfect seriousness.

"She did not survive it.”

“I see. Allow me to convey my heartfelt condolences. She was a very charming woman.”

“Yes, charming.” Sir Percy looked back toward the Frenchmen. Chauvelin was surprised to see his face had changed completely. Across it was spread an emotion he had thought the hopeless idiot far too blindly merry to possess. It was it was bitter sorrow. Chauvelin was even more taken aback when he said, “You of all men would know that.”

Percy had not been able to control his conflicting emotions any longer. He had been praying throughout the interview that Marguerite’s name would not be mentioned, because he knew if it was, remaining indifferent to the man he supposed had been her lover would be impossible. It was too late to take his words back now, and the desire to know what Chauvelin had been to Marguerite had become overpowering; he could not stop himself from trying to discover the truth of the whole heart wrenching affair.

Chauvelin was completely amazed. For one he had never expected Sir Percy Blakeney capable of speaking in such a manner, and secondly, his implied allegation, if that was indeed what the comment was, had absolutely no base in truth what so ever. Where ever did the fool get such a fantastic idea? He had never so much as laid a finger on Marguerite Blakeney, or St. Just. Like any other morally-corrupt man of the revolution, he had been tempted once or twice in the younger days of his acquaintance with the beautiful young actress. But Marguerite St. Just had been far too shrewd to fall prey to a petty whirlwind affair. It wasn’t what she’d been after.

Chauvelin stood there thinking of how to respond as Sir Percy paced in front of the window. “I’m not at all sure of what you are implying, sir,” began the Frenchmen, “but if it is what I am under the impression you are accusing me of, I can only say I am innocent of that crime.”

Percy stopped pacing by the window. What? Innocent? Could the man be telling the truth? It was fairly clear to him now that Chauvelin was still in the dark in regards to his identity. He had certainly been astonished enough when the accusation had escaped Percy’s lips unchecked. It must imply that he hadn’t expected something of so serious a nature to be on the mind of such a hopeless idiot. He decided it most to his advantage if he continued to play the jealous fool-of-a-husband.

“Innocent, sir?” Sir Percy interjected, pouting. “How am I to know you’re not telling me the most outrageous lie ever concocted by the mind of man?”

“How am I to know what you’re talking about if you don’t tell me?”

“Deuce take it, sir, you just said you did!”

“I most certainly did not! I said I was under the impression of what you meant. I didn’t say I knew!”

"Well make up your mind then!”

Chauvelin rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. The nincompoop couldn’t even argue sensibly over the gravest of matters. Trying his best to remain calm he asked, “What precisely do you really mean, sir?”

Sir Percy’s pout grew a vast deal more pathetic. “I mean, sir, to ask you if...” the fop blushed. Apparently he had forgotten just what he had implied. “Did you... that is to say... were you and she, I mean...?”

Chauvelin sighed. “No. You may rest assured, Sir Percy, the answer is no.”

“But how did you know what I was talking about if...”

“I just do.”

“But she told me she had a lover!” The idiot blushed furiously when he realized what had slipped out of his mouth.

You heard wrong!” proclaimed Chauvelin, tired of the other’s brainless and misguided jealousy.

“Oh...”

I heard her wrong? It is a possible. No, I’m sure that’s what she said. But if not Chauvelin, who was it? Blast, surely Andrew would be here by now if he wasn’t caught on the way. Where have they taken him, and what am I going to do about this bothersome Frenchmen?

Chauvelin, agitated but still unwilling to go, began to look aimlessly about the room, thinking random thoughts to pass the remaining time he must spend with the huffy nincompoop before the latter left. He began to wonder why Sir Percy had not bothered to pick up his trinket and go, especially after arguing with him over so uncomfortable a matter. Blakeney was now standing at the window and pacing back and forth, occasionally glancing out of it into the street. He seemed impatient. Then he began to fiddle with the signet ring on his little finger as he paced.

Why won’t the demmed fellow leave? Surely by now he knows the Scarlet Pimpernel he’s looking for isn’t going to make an appearance. No doubt he’s connected to Andrew’s disappearance. The sooner he goes, the sooner he can lead me to my unfortunate friend. Blast! I’ve been so careless!

Chauvelin watched in amusement as Sir Percy’s thoughts seemed to make him increasingly fidgety. He had stopped pacing and was now staring off into space, his face as intense as one with so little brains could make it. His long slender fingers worked at a rapid pace to twist the ring around and around, and his lazy eyes refused to rest on one thing for longer than a few brief seconds.

Then, quite without warning, Blakeney’s signet ring flew from his agitated fingers and rolled across the floor. It made it’s way quickly down the slant in the floor boards and stopped abruptly at the feet of Chauvelin.

Smirking at this display of the man’s distracted and dull wits, the Frenchmen stooped to pick up the ring. What an idiot this man was, what a completely hopeless idiot.

An ironical smile curved Chauvelin’s lips and he held out the ring to Blakeney, who was searching the floor with almost wild vigor. “I believe this is what you dropped, sir. It looks like your signet ring...”

Chauvelin had glanced down at it and realized what he held. The impression on the ring’s surface was not an example of the typically over exaggerated English family crest, but instead, it simply bore a small, star shaped flower. The Scarlet Pimpernel.

For a moment, the accredited agent, who so prided himself in his self-possession, was left entirely speechless. He could not believe his eyes. Sir Percy Blakeney was the... NO! Impossible, utterly and completely impossible! But here it was the accursed symbol impressed into his signet ring, and wasn’t the man’s very presence in the apartments proof enough of his identity? Had the clever Frenchmen indeed been fooled by the apparent brainlessness of this inane favorite of London society, completely fooled as everyone else? The thought was incredible...but, Chauvelin didn’t doubt it. He knew he had at last cornered his enemy.

Suddenly, and quite without reason, the situation became humorous. Chauvelin’s sarcastic smile broke into a cruel laugh. How baffled he had been, and yet the answer was so simple! Under his very nose!

Blakeney stood quiet still and silent at the window. He did not attempt to take his ring back or speak to his amused enemy. He simply stood there, his face impassive, his cool glance indifferent.

This game was bound to be up sometime,” thought Percy with uncharacteristic fatality, losing the last shard of his lust for life. It had begun to diminish at Marguerite’s death, and until this moment had been slowly wasting away. Now he cared little whether he lived or died, the helpless innocents that had called him from the pain of home so many times having no influence over his grief. Their pleading voices were silenced in his weakness, his inability to fight through the sorrow. “It might as well end this way.”

“You, sir, are a genius!” Chauvelin cried when he had somewhat recovered. Bowing low he said, “I humbly acknowledge my own blindness to your brilliant charade.”

“I’m so glad it amuses you, Chambertin. You know I always aim to please.”

“Oh, you have, Sir Percy, you have,” remarked Chauvelin, a falsely amiable smile twisting his thin lips. “I can not recall ever being more pleased in my life.”

“And now that you’re in so merry a mood, I don’t suppose you’d tell me where my good friend Andrew Ffoulkes is, would you?” asked Blakeney, smiling innocently.

Chauvelin’s crooked smile lengthened as he finally saw his chance to put before the Scarlet Pimpernel the “either-or” he had concocted for this occasion. “Your friend Ffoulkes is in the custody of my men outside, sir. We caught him just before he entered here.”

“Did you indeed? And why, pray, should I believe you so implicitly?”

“Let us not enter into another discussion about my honesty, Sir Percy, it will hardly get us anywhere. Your unwillingness to believe me hardly does your friend any good. I can assure you that Sir Andrew is indeed in our power. But now that we have you, I could be willing to negotiate a trade...”

“A trade, sir?”

"Yes. You see, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes may be the most trusted member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, but his arrest means almost nothing if his leader is still at large. On the other hand, the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel would be a considerable gain to the Republic, regardless of whether his comrade is taken with him or not.”

“Ah, I see, Chaubertin. Poor Andrew just ain’t good enough for you, is he?” said Blakeney smirking. On the surface, he did not seem at all disturbed by the fact he was about to be captured and doubtlessly executed for his crimes against the Republic. But Chauvelin was feeling too triumphant to let this bother him.

“As much as I respect Sir Andrew, milord, it is your presence in the Conciergerie I desire.”

“I’m not too fond of prisons, dear fellow, but I suppose I must comply if Ffoulkes should be spared such demmed discomfort. Lead me on, sir, I pray you, but on one condition.”

“And that is?”

Sir Percy’s face grew astonishingly serious. “That I am allowed to see Andrew undisputably set free, with no one to follow him in attempt to capture the rest of my men.”

Chauvelin smirked. “That is two conditions, Sir Percy.”

A good humored smile crossed Blakeney’s lips. “Never was any good at arithmetic, old man.”

The smug agent could have cared less about Andrew Ffoulkes and the rest of the petty league now that he had cornered their leader. “Despite the nature of your request, sir, I am nevertheless willing to gratify it, so long as you come along quietly.”

“I am at your disposal, Chauvelin.”

Surprised to hear his name come unmolested from Blakeney’s lips, Chauvelin beckoned Sir Percy to follow him outside, quite content with the assurance that his prisoner would not try something as futile as escape. “There it is, Sir Percy, now you’ve got it right.” he called over his shoulder as they retreated down the stairs. He opened the door to the outside. “It’s a pity Lady Blakeney isn’t around to hear of your stunning progress.”

“If you please, my dear fellow, do not mention her,” requested Sir Percy stiffly as he put on the hat he so detested. “Torture was not part of this bargain.”

It was damp. A frigid midnight wind rushed through the steal bars across the lone window to the outside, swirling against the stone cold walls of the dank cell. The moon was not out that night, but even if it had been, its rays would not have pierced the thick blackness which enveloped everything within the lonely hole. It was dirty, smelled distinctly of unwashed humanity, and no doubt was the abode of numerous rats. Silence reigned over it all.

This wretched cell was not large, perhaps ten feet by ten. The place was innocent of furniture, save for a rickety wooden table eaten away by vermin and a solitary chair, nearly destroyed for similar reasons. It creaked mournfully as it’s occupant sighed and leaned back against the stone wall.

Percy closed his eyes and shut his ears. He had ceased to notice the bitting cold that had settled over the room and stayed there like a cell mate. He was still dressed in his own excellently tailored clothes, but seemed not to care that they were now becoming increasingly soiled by his damp and dirty surroundings. All he wished to do was think. To think about her.

Crushing reality had finally made its unerasable mark on the carefree adventurer. Until Marguerite’s death, he had never known the wild game he played to be so consuming. When forming the league, he had been fully aware that his decision to help the condemned innocents of France was one that would place him in constant danger of losing his life. He had willingly braved the danger and even laughed in its face, but had failed to realize how much the knowledge that she would always be waiting for him, civil or contemptuous, meant when he returned. With the chance to win back her love one day, as outrageous as the hope seemed, his daring escapades had gained a hidden meaning. They were an effort to become worthy of his fallen angel, even if she was the most treacherous, deceitful liar that ever walked the earth. Or perhaps his work had become a way to atone for her sin. But whatever the meaning was, she was gone now, and there was nothing to go on fighting for.

And yet, somewhere deep inside his tortured soul, Percy couldn’t help but hear the helpless innocents still crying out to him, more pathetic than before. “We need you!” they whimpered, “don’t give up on us because the woman who hated our class is dead. How can you even grieve for such a creature? Those like her only want us to suffer. Will you now abandon our children who call out to you for escape?”

Percy tried not to listen to their faint cries, determined to silence them and spend these precious few hours alone to dwell in his grief, but the pleas of the helpless only grew louder. They were scarcely apparent at first, muddled with his sorrowful thoughts and broken heart, and then, very suddenly, they began to rise to the surface. Before him now was no longer the image of Marguerite in all her tainted glory, but rather the faces of the children of the Marquis de Chaminade. They had been so small and so frightened when he’d helped them into the cart, huddling into the corner, shivering as he covered them with various sacks and miscellaneous objects. In his mind their large and trusting eyes looked on him in a silent request for the safety of the other innocent children, those pursued by the malicious and bloodthirsty hate all of France harbored against their parents. It was impossible to ignore. Percy’s heart ripped a little farther at the thought of willingly condemning these precious children by choosing to pine away the rest of his life, felling sorry for himself and doing nothing to help them.

He was hopelessly torn. What was the nobler thing to do? Stay in prison and wait for a death endured for the unconquerable love he bore his fallen angel, or plan escape and continue in his mission of mercy?

Of course he’d not been at liberty to run that evening when Chauvelin arrested him: Andrew’s invaluable life had been at stake. But now, escape was not entirely impossible- the chance to free himself would sooner or later present itself, and Percy’s ready wits were sure to outsmart any foolish republican guard, or agent for that matter. The question was now, was it right that he should try?

Completely unable to make a decision, Percy let out a deep sigh, putting his elbows on the creaky old table and then resting his weary head between his hands. Soon this wretched indecision would be over- whether it ended in death or freedom.

His melancholy reflections were interrupted when, quiet unexpectedly, the barred door was roughly thrust open, creaking on its hinges and shaking the prisoner from his revere. A feeble ray of light from a oily lantern crossed the floor, fading into the darkness at Percy’s feet. The bearer of this lantern was wrapped in a long cloak, with the stature of a man, but his face was indiscernible in the inky blackness of the cell.

When curiosity had finally made its was into Percy’s muddled brain, a surly gruff voice from behind the cloaked figure shouted, “Last Rights!”- the unnoticed guard who had opened the door for the man. The same guard now slammed the door, sending a frigid gust of wind through the already bitterly cold cell.

As soon as the heavy footsteps of the guard died away down the corridor, the silent figure, whom Percy had assumed to be a priest, threw off the cloak and leaving it in a heap on the floor, hurried excitedly to where the other man sat. In a frenzied whisper he proclaimed “Percy, its me! Armand! We’re all here to get you out!”

Percy’s eyes grew large. Amazingly enough, he had not expected for a moment that the league would come to his rescue. In his distraction he had nearly forgotten all about them. And now here was his brother-in-law, sitting right in front of him and disguised as a priest, shaking with excitement and ready to pull him out, singlehandedly if need be.

“How did you know I was here?”

“Andrew came to tell us what happened as soon as he was set free. We’ve been working all night to pull together a plan, and I’ve been sent to tell you of it.”

“But what about the Faures? Didn’t I give Ffoulkes directions to rescue them tonight?”

“We managed to revise the plans so that one half of the league could see to them while the other half retrieved you. How could we forsake our leader?”

“It’s too dangerous, Armand. You should never have come. I’m not worth risking all your lives for. This place is guarded so heavily there is hardly room to breathe. You should have let me do what needs to be myself.”

“Percy! Where’s your spirit? Don’t talk as if it is impossible! You shall be free as a bird by dawn. Now listen to the plan. It’s not worthy of your brilliance, but it will work; we’ll all sure of it. Tony, Hastings, Andrew, and Elton are outside, dressed as soldiers and waiting with the carriage. You said just now this place is heavily guarded, what’s one more? I have an extra uniform with me- for you. Under my priest’s cloak there’s also some rags stuffed with straw. We will leave it in a heap in the corner. In this dim light, no one will be able to tell if it’s you or not. When the guard comes back, we’ll tell him you were the solder assigned to watch the prisoner and now your shift has ended. You are required to escort me out to my carriage, where the others are waiting for us. You can tell him the prisoner is in a heap on the floor asleep and doesn’t need guarding for now. With that, we’ll be able to walk out practically unmolested.”

Armand’s hope and enthusiasm when unheeded by Percy. He was too busy torturing himself over the question of leaving or staying. Gratitude toward his men and frustration with their rash action flooded him at the same time, making his decision even more difficult. The league’s plan was fairly well thought out- it would most likely be successful- but should he go along with it?

When his brother-in-law saw the conflicting emotions cross Percy’s tired face, Armand looked away. He knew his task was going to be difficult.

“Percy, you must come with me. There are people out there who need you.”

“I know, I know! I can barely stop myself from thinking of them. But I can’t shake the feeling that...” Percy let out a long and heavy sigh. “That maybe it’s best for it all to just end here.”

“What! Percy, you can’t be serious! You never say such awful things! What have you been telling yourself in this hole? Why have you become so fatalistic all of a sudden?”

“I’m not being fatalistic. I’m being logical. We’ve never attempted the impossible, Armand, I made sure of that from the beginning. This is too much!”

“But it’s not impossible, Percy! If we all perform our parts well, escape is child’s play!”

“Escape maybe, but what about after that?! How am I supposed to just go on without...”

Armand’s eyes collided with Percy’s face. The latter, realizing what he had as good as blurted out what he had been meaning to hide, got up from his chair and walked to the window. He starred out through the bars and shoved his hands in his pockets.

After a few minutes of tense silence, Armand spoke up. His voice was quietly confident as he said, “This isn’t simply a question of death or freedom, is it? This isn’t just about whether you go free to continue our work or stay here to die like a martyr. This is about Margot, isn’t it?”

Percy did not turn around. His hands left his pockets and crossed in front of him.

Armand’s courage grew. “Whether you know it or not, Percy Blakeney, you let yourself get caught. The Scarlet Pimpernel hasn’t finally been outsmarted, no. That is impossible. Unless he is too lost in his own despair to care if his enemies have him or not.”

Without moving from his position at the window, Percy said, “Don’ run away with preposterous ideas, Armand. It won’t do either of us any good.”

“I’m not blind, Percy. Don’t you think I know better than anyone how much you loved her? I am as crushed as you are, if that is possible. Margot was more precious than anything else in life to me...” Armand’s voice faltered, but he continued. “But I know I must learn to live without her, and now I’m prepared to try. You must as well, Percy, for the sake of all those who depend upon you. But you don’t have to do it alone as you tried to earlier this week. The whole league is behind you- don’t give up!”

Percy turned to face his brother-in-law, who was roughly whipping the moisture from his eyes. When Armand looked up, Percy gave him a sad smile.

“You’re a good man, Armand, and I thank you for your thoughts. But mere words can’t show me what to do. I have to be convinced within myself of what is right,” Percy raised his eyes, “and with the help of a little divine intervention.”

Armand’s face fell. His eyes began to travel in no particular direction until they hit the cloak lying in a heap on the floor. His head jerked up and his glance met Percy’s urgently. “I can’t give you divine intervention, Percy, but I do know a way you can get some from Marguerite.”

Ignoring Percy’s bewildered glace and sputtering half sentences in protest, Armand leapt to his cloak and began digging wildly through the pockets. Percy watched him in confusion, while trying to stifle the rising hope inside him. Was it possible Marguerite had left something for him?

Having found what he was looking for, Armand jumped up from the floor and hurried to the rodent-eaten table. He motioned silently for Percy to join him there. When the latter had sat down again, Armand pushed the lantern across the table toward him, the light illuminating their faces in the darkness. Percy struggled to keep his expression even, while Armand’s face betrayed him right away. His perpetual excitement was replaced for the moment by a look that told his brother-in-law he was a bit ashamed of himself.

Armand reached across the table and quietly laid a sealed packet of papers in front of Percy. A letter. Though the paper looked at least a few weeks old and was slightly smudged or torn in places, the seal had not been broken. Even before Percy lifted it with gently quaking hands and read his name on the other side, he knew who this letter was from and the person it was addressed to. As he nervously began to tear at the seal, Armand ventured to speak again.

“I found it the day after she died. I was in her bedroom when the paper on her bedside table caught my eye. And while I stood there just staring at it, the silly notion to keep it crept over me. Something to do with the fact that Margot had put a precious piece of herself down on that paper . I needed so badly to have something of her’s close to me, so I took it and kept have it near throughout this first wretched week without her. Forgive me Percy, but even though I saw your name on the letter and knew it was addressed to you, I had no intention of actually delivering it, until now. But you need it more than I do.”

Percy looked up from the paper at Armand and made an valiant attempt to smile. As he had managed to break the seal and open the letter as his brother-in-law spoke, Percy was provided a full view of an entire page covered with Marguerite’s handwriting. The sight of it at first was too painful, tugging at his numbed heart with a fresh wave of crushing grief. He had to look away a moment, covering his face with his hand and trying to take deep slow breaths to force back the sobs threatening to rise in his throat. Percy felt Armand’s comforting palm on his shoulder; he had been equally effected by the overwhelming sight of his sister’s hand.

Then gradually, Percy managed to gather his courage and look again. Somehow, Armand had been right when he guessed Marguerite’s letter would sway his undecided leader, because when he started to read, everything began to turn wonderfully clear...

Percy let out the breath he had been unconsciously holding. He could not feel anything, not even the moisture gathering at the corners of his tired eyes. Her words became blurred on the page, the paper hot in his hands. There was so much to feel and yet in spite of himself, he had gone completely numb. The cell was absolutely silent, save for Armand’s shaky, uneven breathing.

And then everything flooded Percy. Marguerite was morally innocent of the St. Cyr’s blood. She had begged for his forgiveness. Never had she been unfaithful, always had she been constant. She had loved him all along, even to the very last. Percy felt so many emotions at the same time that he didn’t know how to respond. Sparks seemed to fly through his chest and down his arms, buzzing their way to his finger tips and fizzing all over. Was all this possible?

For the first time in that heart wrenching week after Marguerite’s death, Percy felt at peace, and he knew everything she had written to him was true. Not only had she at last told him the whole truth, but her plea for forgiveness had carried a hidden message along with it. She herself had forgiven him. She had been willing to start over, even if it was only for a few precious moments. Why did I not see it before? Percy questioned himself in amazement, How could I have been so blind and foolish?

They both had, he realized. Too wrapped up in their own pain to see that the other one was suffering as well. She had been right about that, too. Her noble heart had at last called out to him in an attempt to escape from their mutual pride, and though it seemed for a moment as if the boundaries they had built between themselves would win out, the truth had come out at last, and they were both free from the misunderstanding and despair they had created.

It was all so simple now. The decision that Percy had spent hours debating over now had an obvious answer. Marguerite had made his choice for him.

“Armand?”

The younger man’s head jerked from it’s thoughtful position between his palms and he roughly whipped his eyes. “What?”

“Where’s that soldier’s uniform?”

Armand looked confused. “Under my robe. Why?”

Percy gave an exasperated sigh. “Do you really think the guard will believe I’m a devoted citizen of the republic while clothed in this attire?”

The young man’s jaw hung open and he stared at the other in disbelief.

“Then- you’re- you’re coming with me?”

Percy grinned for the first time in a week. It felt marvelous. “Of course I am, you foolish boy! Would I, of all people, want to rot it this demmed hole for the rest of my life?”

Armand gave a small smile back. “No.” His face turned serious. “But then again, Margot wouldn’t have wanted you to either.”

Percy stood and looked down at the floor. “No,” he said quietly. Looking up, he gradually began to smile again. “She wouldn’t have.”

Armand nodded. “You’re doing the right thing, Percy. I’m glad you’re coming with me. We all need you, but I don’t have to tell you that.”

“Yes, about that...” Percy quickly crossed back to the chair, his solemn face replaced by an air of mock businesslike attitude. “There are a few spots in your plan, my dear boy, that we’re going to have to work on a bit, if we’re to get out in one piece, that is.” He broke into another grin, which Armand promptly mirrored. “Mind you, it’s not bad, it just needs a little help in places. Now, this priest bit...”

Five minutes later, Percy had finished touching up the league’s plan and pulled on the soldier’s uniform over his own clothes, smearing a bit more dirt from the cell’s floor over his face to make him look gruffer. Armand stood in the middle of it, trying to put on the priest’s robe again but ending up it’s prisoner. Percy chuckled quietly and went over to assist him. He pulled out the stuffed rags that were to take his place in the cell, and that Armand had forgotten about when attempting to re-robe himself. Shaking his head in mock disappointment, Percy took the rags and carefully arranged them into a convincing heap in the farthest and darkest corner of the cell.

Armand pulled the cloak on completely and covered his head and most of his face with the hood. All there was to do now was wait.

A moment later, brisk and measured footsteps were heard coming from the distance, beating against the stone floor of the corridor. The thrill of adventure raced through Percy again, a feeling he had been a week without, not realizing how much he missed it. How he would have regretted staying in this hole to pout over his disappointments. Percy couldn’t resist grinning, a habit he was regaining at a delightful speed. Infuriating Frenchies was just too much demmed fun!

Armand, who had guessed Percy’s feelings and was experiencing them himself, turned to his leader in admiration and asked timidly in a whisper, “For Margot?”

Percy’s smile broadened, his eyes softening. He patted the place where her letter rested, secure in the inside pocket of his coat.

“For Margot.”

Fanfiction