by Jennifer Ainsley
The night was thickly silent and deathly still. Not a sound could be heard anywhere, for no creature dared make noise and disturb the eerie silence that enveloped the streets of Paris. Even the inky darkness seemed to hush the normally chaotic streets; the stars long since lost from sight in the hazy fog of pollution that hung overhead.
This darkness, black as a citizen’s coat, holds a stranger from our sight. We see but a phantom, an apparition, as it darts across the streets and hides in the alleyways. His clothes are black as well, hiding him in the night’s black cloak, but the twinkling of his eyes can be seen across the darkest of paths. Perhaps we can even see a small grin edging his lips before his face once more disappears from sight. He moves stealthily and silently; you wouldn’t have noticed him had I not pointed him out. Yet he finally emerges into the square that holds the infamous “Madame la Guillotine” herself. Just that day she had claimed nearly twenty people, all condemned to die as traitors to France, all whose only crime was the position they had inherited from their parents.
The figure creeps across body after sleeping body; the sleeping crones, the homeless children, the “sans-culottes” who had found comfort in the future their Madame had promised them. He climbs the stairs noiselessly, ignoring the twisting and turning of his stomach protesting from the stench of blood drying on wood.
He reaches the top of the guillotine: the symbol of freedom for all the impoverished people below and the symbol of death for all whose family background rose higher than the gutter. As he looks upon this monstrosity before him, the tawny moon breaks through the haze. The dim light of the gaslights in the street below is put to shame as the golden beams shine down and flicker against the blade. This light also shines off this brave man’s face. He embraces this sudden light for an instant, his eyes closed and his face tranquil. But before we can recognize his face, it has moved again. He makes his first violent movement and the Madame lets out a loud shriek. As her cries of pain echo through the street, making more than one Frenchman jump in terror, the man has disappeared.
Armand St. Just’s laugh echoed raucously against the cold stone walls of the small prison cell. Even Percy grinned amusedly, leaning back against the wall upon finishing his story.
“You broke the guillotine right underneath their nose. Ah, Sir Percy. How do you think of such things?”
He smiled, stretching out his long legs. “La, sir, ‘twas positively simple.”
He yawned lazily and closed his eyes as though to sleep, but both Armand’s and his minds were reliving what had happened that very morning, but a few hours after Percy’s destruction of the guillotine.
No word had come to the prisons of the defilement cast upon the guillotine, so the aristocrats were sent out as usual. When the tumbril arrived, a general chaos emerged from the generally harmless mob that gathered every morning. In the ruckus, the aristocrats disappeared into the crowd and were sent quickly to England care of League members Sir Andrew Ffloukes and Lord Edward Hastings. However, two League members were not so lucky as to escape. One very dear to the cause, indeed.
Weighted down by a panicky brother-in-law, Sir Percy Blakeney found himself suddenly cornered in an alleyway with his dear foe Chauvelin, smirking and enjoying some snuff as he approached.
"Blakeney.”
Percy’s blood ran cold at the sound of his own name and he turned about slowly. His lips curled into an inane smile and his clear blue eyes instinctively grew lazy looking.
“Chomberton! Sink me if I ain’t utterly surprised to see you! Do you get your waistcoats here, as well?”
Percy’s eyes fell upon Chauvelin’s plain black coat, his hastily tied cravat, with an obvious disgust.
“Obviously not. Really, you should let me recommend...”
However, Chauvelin had stepped forward and was enjoying every moment of having control over this enemy he had so long stalked. His fox-like eyes were narrow as they took in their prey.
“You really are a clever one, Sir Percy.”
Percy smiled at the compliment, his already tall figure puffing up a few inches.
“Oh, why thank you Shufflin’. I always say, ‘Judge a man by the cravat he wears’. In my case, it speaks of a man whose genius is rivaled by naught but his good fashion sense. In your case... well...”
Percy’s face contorted as it struggled to find something encouraging to say of the pathetic piece of lace encircling Chauvelin’s throat. Chauvelin did not give him the chance. He turned and stalked from the alleyway, speaking something to his guards as he went. As the guards stepped forward to bring Percy and Armand to the prisons, Chauvelin called back to him over his shoulder.
“You are so clever, Sir Percy, that I do not want such genius to fall into another’s hands. I trust you will find my accommodations for you quite delightful.”
And so they now found themselves locked securely in a hollowed-out block of stone that caused them to shiver ~ both from the cold and the horrors promised their immediate future. Both accused traitors to France, guilty of being in League with the Scarlet Pimpernel. Yet neither seemed at first obvious to fit this verdict.
Armand St. Just, nothing more than a simple plebeian who had long ago been insulted highly by an aristocrat. His French-ness shone through in every part of him, from his accent to his height. (Or lack thereof) A non-aristocratic Frenchman part of the League?
Or consider the case of Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart. Aristocratic from the curled wig to the high-heeled shoes. A frequent at card tables and cricket fields. An Englishman in every sense of the word. More likely to follow the Pimpernel? Simply spend a few moments near him at Lord Grenville’s Ball, or perhaps one of the Prince of Wales’ banquets. You will find him incompetent, idiotic, and quite thoroughly a nincompoop.
And yet it was this nincompoop that ingeniously led nineteen brave men into battle against the ravages of the revolution. And this French plebeian one of those nineteen. And though these two men were of separate mind, separate country, separate lives, their mind was at this moment focused on one person.
Lady Marguerite Blakeney. To one, a devoted wife. To the other, a loving sister. To both, their one regret in leaving this world for such a heroic cause.
In the humble body of Sir Percy, however, all feelings of self-pity were instantly brushed aside as the heavy metal door clanked open and two guards entered to escort them out: one rather tall for a Frenchman and the other quite short. Percy couldn’t help cackling quietly in delight.
In but a few minutes, the guards were unconscious and dressed to resemble an English fop and his brother-in-law. Two guards stood over them, smiling.
“What could possibly be the matter, Sir Percy?” Armand asked, noticing suddenly that Percy was examining the cuffs of the guard’s coat with a frown.
“’Twas my favorite cravat! Sink me, that guard better leastwise send me a note of thanks when ‘tis all over!”
Armand laughed, but Percy quite quickly turned serious.
“Armand, you must listen to me now. I question not that we shall see Chauvelin somewhere in this prison before we escape. You are not to go near him. I have no question in my mind he will recognize you, costume or not. And should he see you...”
He trailed off, but Armand understood every word not spoken. He gulped, then nodded. Percy continued.
“I cannot state this enough, Armand. Whilst I love tormenting Chauvelin much as any man, there is a correct time and a wrong time. Safe in England and at a ball, quite enjoyable. Trapped in a Parisian prison, not all that good.” Percy’s gaze softened, his English indifference bending under what he felt needed to be said. “Besides... I should be most distressed if anything happened to you. I see you... almost as my own son.”
Armand smiled.
“Besides, Margot would have your head!”
Percy laughed, grateful for the emotional scene to be broken up. He ran his delicate, bony fingers over his neck, grimacing.
“Yes, there’s certainly enough people in the world who want my head. I don’t need another.”
Struggling to put a serious look back on their face, they opened the door and made their way into the hallway. And, in a heap on the floor, lay two soldiers with a small piece of paper lying atop one of them. A piece of paper bearing the mark of a humble wayside flower of England.
“Citizen Chauvelin, you have my reassurance that your prisoners are safely guarded. No means of escape are even remotely possible. I hardly think it necessary...”
Chauvelin’s pace never slackened, his manner growing more and more irritated by the prison guard trailing after him.
“I know this man, citizen. He is not to trifled with.”
“Yes, citizen,” the man replied, his voice weary.
They finally arrived at the door of the cell which the jailer opened to allow Chauvelin to gaze upon it’s inhabitants, sprawled upon the floor in an undignified heap. He began to close the door when Chauvelin impulsively bounded into the room and pulled the unconscious men onto their backs. Screaming a rather naughty word at the sight of his own guards, he raced from the room. All the jailer could hear before the man disappeared from view was, “Close this prison down. NOW!”
“Percy,” Armand whispered, his voice barely audible as they crept along dark hallway after dark hallway. “Do you know where we are going?”
“Home, Armand. Now shush.”
Percy’s face had taken on the determination that Armand and the rest of the League had learned long ago not to question. As he followed his leader down dark, dripping hallways doored on either side by large metal monstrosities, Armand’s mind raced with the thrill of escape.
If only Chauvelin could see us now... Know that we are escaping his grasp... Know that this time, like all others, he will not succeed.
Percy’s mind, on the other hand, stayed on far more important matters.
Andrew and Tony should have discovered where we are. If we can escape past the gates, they should be somewhere near by and can take us to safety.
Percy was so deeply engrossed in his plans, he nearly didn’t notice they had finally found the front gate. This was, however, of little consequence as they were disguised as guards and the guards at the front door of the prison seemed deeply engrossed in the latest gossip of the day. Apparently, one of their friends had actually seen the Scarlet Pimpernel just last week. Percy couldn’t help but smile softly as they passed by the two boys, resisting the strong urge to turn to them and explain that the gentleman they saw sounding more like Sir Philip than himself.
Outside was another matter, altogether. The front gate beckoned, as did the sight of a carriage just across ‘la rue’ carrying a rather nervous looking Sir Andrew Ffloukes and Lord Antony Dewhurst. Nonetheless, in the space between them sat a courtyard full of French guards and a certain Citizen Armand Chauvelin who was gazing upon every guard with a falcon-like stare.
However, it would be easy enough. Simply keep your head down, your eyes on the pavement, and walk straight across. Taking a deep breath, Percy began his march, Armand beside him and trying his best to copy Percy’s movements.
They neared the gate, their steps growing firmer and quicker. Only now, a few steps from freedom with the gates opening to allow them leave, did Chauvelin come near them. He wouldn’t have seen them, as they were of a station below him, had Armand not suddenly had the burning desire to just take a quick peek at his enemy. He knew Percy had told him not to, but...
The timing was completely horrid. Their eyes met; Chauvelin’s pale eyes suddenly bursting forth with fire as they froze young St. Just in his steps. Percy had nearly cleared the gate when he heard the screech of “Arręter!” from the lips of Chauvelin. He turned in horror to see the courtyard suddenly enveloped in chaos. Chauvelin was running about, throwing people out of the way to try to find where Percy had gone. But what Percy’s eyes had found themselves glued upon was his brother-in-law under the care of several French guards holding muskets and carrying an evil look in their gaze.
He jumped in terror at the sudden grab at his arms, and turned to see Andrew and Tony pulling him off in the direction of the carriage. His relief at the sight of his friends turned to fear as he realized where they were taking him. Away from Armand.
“No! They have Armand! Come on, we have got to save him! Let go of me!”
But, despite the tears that gathered in the corners of their eyes, Andrew and Tony would not relinquish their hold on their leader, and continued to pull his six foot, three inches frame to the carriage.
“He’s gone, Percy. There’s no way we can save him without killing all of us.”
Their words provided only to make Percy kick and squirm harder, and they threw him into the carriage with a kind of relief. As Lord Tony crawled in after his leader, his English indifference to emotion caused him to look away from the sight of Sir Percy Blakeney huddled in the corner, staring out the window as they drove away. When the sound of the shot echoed through the courtyard, he collapsed into the corner of the carriage, sobbing.