Soon the Moon Will Smolder

Chauvelin grimaced. Of all the idiotic circumstances that could possibly befall a human being, this was the worst yet. He, Chauvelin, imprisoned, without a discernible cause or individual to blame. He, Chauvelin, whose name struck fear in the hearts of the people!   Ah, they may not know it yet, he thought, but they were scared of him.  Everyone was scared of him. He was Chauvelin, for crying out loud.

He was Chauvelin.  Whatever that meant any more.  Someone, somewhere, had turned on him.  He did not know who. He could not determine any course of action, nor any escape from this particular embarrassing predicament.  In his mind, he was at a dead end. Which, if one wants to be precise, is a particularly undesirable place to be.

One single, solitary thought began to form in Chauvelin's brain.  It was the most  loathsome idea that had ever crossed his mind.  He was ashamed the moment he thought it. The utter stupidity!

And yet he had thought it.

If Blakeney were here, what would he do?

The female jailguard had smiled at him on the way in--Chauvelin could not determine whether she was mocking him, or was delighted to have a new guest.   She was a girl -- nineteen? -- her appearance somewhere between chic and frightening.  She wore a dress of heavy black cloth, and had the keys hung around her neck.  Chauvelin recognized her from somewhere: the ratty black hair, the large dark eyes, the pale skin were not exactly pretty, but definitely familiar.

"I knew all your names," Angelique told him as she passed some food through the bars.  "The Committee of Public Safety, the this of this, the that of that.  The powerful ones. You were my favorite," she admitted.  "I liked the attitude.  Even after that scarlet pimpernel mess when your career became a joke.  It happens to the best of us, what can I say?  But once you're in here," she indicated the area around the cell, "you're nothing."

"I suppose, then, I cannot persuade you to enlighten me as to what my crime was."

Angelique looked about nonchalantly. "Oh, treason. More specifically, defamation -- which is usually evidence of greater treason."

"What kind of defamation?"

"Mmm, to Citizen Robespierre. It takes a brave man to insult him," she mused. "Or an incredibly stupid one."

"And what do you say they say I said?"

"You called Robespierre a mongrel?"

The event came flooding back to him. "Mongoose!" Chauvelin protested to some unseen witness. "I CLEARLY said mongoose! And it was laced with a great deal of sarcasm, implying that no poor fool would ever dare to make such a remark!"

"Yet you did." How smug she sounded. And yet such a dry, grating humor.

Chauvelin could not send her away.  For once, he had no power over mere jailkeepers.  So he turned, fiercely calm, and sat in far corner of his cell.  He would not give her the how-dare-you-disrespect-me argument and lower himself even further.  And the irony of such a remark would be laughable.

Chauvelin's secretary, Sicard, had obviously been the one to denounce him.  He was the one who had prompted him to make a dry remark about the lack of freedom of speech. Sicard had simply taken a few words Chauvelin had muttered in conversation and twisted them a bit.  Roch must have been bribed--or influenced somehow--by some faction that wanted Chauvelin dead.  How bizarre, to think that there was such a group.  A group that tracked, hunted, and trapped their prey.  He strongly disliked being on the receiving end of such plans.

This area of the prison was relatively isolated. He couldn't imagine why, when masses of doomed people were usually in a single contained area.  Unless the masses were very few now, which simply could not be.  More likely that it was some sort of sarcastic joke -- Citizen Chauvelin was too good for normal confinement.  Not to mention that he would make an excellent spectacle for the people.  No one could keep an ounce of dignity lying prostrate on the scaffold.

The image flashed in his mind.  How many times had he stalked through the streets, immune to the proceedings of the mob?  How long before the trial? Would those cretins have the decency to get it over with quickly? Most likely they would make him wait, to drain the life out of him.  He was well-versed in such tactics; perhaps that knowledge could be his strength.  He could work against whatever torture they devised. Ha! What good would that do him? He would, ultimately, reach the same detestable outcome.

At least things couldn't possibly get any worse.

As if in answer, a loud snore came from the opposite side of the cell.  Chauvelin realized another man slept quite comfortably there with his face turned to the wall.  Chauvelin had been foolish enough to think the figure in the corner was a mere pile of dirty cloth for sleeping on.  No such luxuries were to be expected here.

Chauvelin had no desire to wake his roommate -- whoever he was -- from what seemed to be a peaceful afternoon nap. Chauvelin could not help that, when he became fully aware of the size and manner of dress of the sleeping figure, a cry of shock escaped his lips.

Chauvelin could only stare blankly ahead.  It was surreal, the idea that such things could possibly happen, that the man in the corner could possibly be who he first imagined. His mind was playing tricks, of course!  The pressure on his mind, the prison air, were all causes for him to imagine things.

Upon hearing the noise Chauvelin made, though, the figure had stirred. Before Chauvelin could gather the strength to move, the tall man was already sitting up comfortably and giving Chauvelin a most curious look -- with those accursed familiar blue eyes of his!

Sir Percy's eyes twinkled. "Who the devil are you?" he said, in French.

"Blakeney," Chauvelin said, aghast, to no one in particular. He sprang to his feet.  "They've put you here to torture me!"

"Whatever do you mean, Citizen?"

"Hush!" Chauvelin commanded. He paced the cell. "It's a plot. And I thought I knew how to whittle away at a prisoner's nerves. Why, this is ingenious! Pure genius.  By this time tomorrow, I'll be begging them to kill me.  Tell me," he commanded, whirling round on Blakeney, "how did they persuade you to work with them?"

"IImust admit I don't understand," Blakeney confessed.

"What are you playing at, Blakeney?"

"Blakeney?" Blakeney repeated dumbly.

"Yes! Sir-Percival-goddamn-Blakeney, bar-o-goddamn-net!"

Blakeney appeared to understand.  "Why, I'm not Blakeney," Blakeney said amiably. "Whoever THAT is. I'm the Marquis Yves de St. Clair!"

Chauvelin turned away, closed his eyes, and took a deep, measured breath. Slowly, he opened his eyes and looked back. No good. Blakeney was still there. "Do you mean to say..."

"Oh, confound it all, Chambertin," Blakeney drawled in English, "you've seen through my ingenious disguise. You always were so demmed clever, Chambertin, so demmed clever!  Why, everyone else here thinks I'm the Marquis Yves de St. Clair, and I could not be so rude as to correct them."

"Masquerading as an aristo!" Chauvelin said half to himself. "But why?  How do I know you aren't lying through your teeth, and they've caught you at last? Yes! All the more reason for them to put us together, the insane irony of it all...'here, Chauvelin!' those villains said. 'Here's your pimpernel! We've come and got him just for you!'  Or, the second scenario: you've agreed to some terms they've put up, merely for the opportunity to torture me throughout my last days on earth. But you are asking me to believe," Chauvelin paused here, and pronounced the aristocratic name with distaste. "Marquis Yves de St. Clair, you are asking me to believe that the authorities who placed me in this cell do not know who you are, and that we ended up together by mere chance?"

"Chambertin," Sir Percy said sympathetically, "what's the matter?  I, for one, am quite happy to see you again.  It's always such a pleasure to meet up with an old acquaintance, isn't it?"

"I'm in hell already* Chauvelin thought. *I thought I could at least wait until I died, but nooo...*

"Why, it's just you and I," Sir Percy continued gaily, "and Madame G. hanging over our heads.  What a situation! Why," Sir Percy leaned closer here, "I forgot to ask! What brings you here, my friend?"

"Circumstances," Chauvelin said tersely, seating himself as far away as he could from Blakeney.

"Circumstances, eh? Demmed inconvenient things, circumstances are. Contrived by some of your little Jacobin friends?  Ohh, so I suppose they aren't your friends any more...you can't trust anyone in this slippery world, can you? We're all caught in the middle of one long treacherous riddle. Well, will you look at that!" Blakeney exclaimed gleefully. "I made a rhyme.  I'll have to work that into a poem somehow...and you can help me, Chambertin, since we'll be here together for a while." Blakeney's tone suddenly became less gleeful. "For a long while...one does hope."

Chauvelin picked up on Blakeney's meaning.  The trial, and then certain death...how long would they remain in confinement before the trial?  Could it be Blakeney feared this, as he did?  Could Blakeney be as doomed as he?  Nonsense! Blakeney was playing with his mind, and probably getting a nice reward for doing so.

Chauvelin knew one thing for certain: his head hurt.  And he had to clear up this Yves de St. Clair deal.  Finally, he saw Angelique come nearby.  "Citizeness," he called in a whisper, putting his face up to the bars, "do you know who this man is?"

"Oh," she replied, "you want a formal introduction.  Yves, Chauvelin.  Chauvelin, Yves.  Better?"

"Citizeness," Chauvelin said slowly, "this man has committed numerous acts against the Republic--"

Angelique shrugged. "Haven't they all?"

"No, this man is no other than--" here Chauvelin had to force himself to say the loathsome words, "the scarlet pimpernel."

Angelique sighed.  "If I could reach in there and pat you on the head, I would.  You're obviously under tons of pressure."

"You're in collaboration with them!" Chauvelin exclaimed. "It's all part of an ingenious plot.  I know he's the pimpernel, and you know he's the pimpernel, only you won't admit it, as a part of the torture."

"Why don't you take a deep breath, lie down?" Angelique suggested. "I know it's tough to deal."  Angelique was awfully sorry the guy was wacky.  He was kinda cute.

"Angelique," he pleaded as she walked away, "if it so happens you aren't in collaboration with evil forces determined to torture me to death, I am telling the truth.  Didn't you hear him speaking English?'

"No," she admitted.  "But then I wasn't listening." She looked thoughtful.  "Hey you," she said in English, "speak English!"

Blakeney, always the actor, didn't understand a word.  "You mean me?" he said in tense French.

"Forget it," Chauvelin grumbled. "Forget it!"

Afternoon faded into night.  Chauvelin was only aware of this through one tiny window near the ceiling.  It was a joke of a window.  You're never getting out of here, the window seemed to say.  Even a rat can't get out of here.You see the size of this window?

So, instead of attempting to glimpse the sky, Chauvelin contemplated ways to kill Blakeney.  He used to have many, but, alas, they all involved weapons.  Or soldiers with weapons.

Blakeney had fallen asleep at last.  Chauvelin was thankful he was finally quiet, and tried to lay down himself.  Wherever he was, Blakeney seemed to be too close.  Chauvelin moved several feet over.  Blakeney rolled over closer.  He tried again.  Blakeney came even closer.  Chauvelin tiptoed to the far end of the cell and waited until Blakeney seemed to be truly asleep.  Then he lay down, as comfortable as he could be on a the hard floor.  All things considered, it was almost nice.  It was more pleasant at this end, a little warmer...

Chauvelin realized Blakeney was breathing down his neck.

Springing out of the way as fast as he could, Chauvelin decided to spend the night standing up in the corner.

Chauvelin was awakened the next morning by the jingling of keys as Angelique strode by.  She passed some bread and water through the bars.  "Good news, guys," she announced.  "The trial's set for tomorrow -- enjoy your stay."  It occurred to Chauvelin where he had seen her before.  "You haven't always worked here, have you, Citizeness?"

"Angelique," she corrected him. "I'm sure I've seen you around while I'm protesting, bartending..."

"Ah yes.  And in court every so often, no?  What was the devil's name..."

"The de Sombre trial!" Angelique exclaimed.

Angelique had, Chauvelin recalled, given a compelling testimony against the de Sombre family.  The testimony, Angelique told him, was entirely fabricated -- but Chauvelin said she had a captivating presence.  The crowds loved her for it. "Oh, that was awesome," Angelique reminisced.  "Entire family guillotined: The father, the two sisters, and how old was the littlest brat? Four?"

"Five," Chauvelin said, "and a quarter." Though he had his back turned to Blakeney, he could feel the englishman wincing.  Chauvelin could talk for hours on one of his favorite subjects -- the success of Madame Guillotine and those who deserved it -- Angelique, it turned out, was an expert. So he sat for most of the day with this oddly intriguing girl, thinking how Blakeney's stomach must have been turning.

That night, Chauvelin couldn't sleep.  He had to keep looking over his shoulder to see what Blakeney was up to. Finally Blakeney rolled over and began to snore loudly.  Percy's snore was worse than his laugh. It sounded, at best, like some sort of sick horse.  Chauvelin had to shut him up.  He kicked Blakeney as hard as he could in the back of the head.  Blakeney did not open his eyes.  He gripped Chauvelin's ankle so hard it pained him. As Chauvelin hurtled toward the floor, he realized once more that he was incredibly stupid.  Then he blacked out.

A few hours later, a couple of unidentified workmen boarded a carriage heading swiftly toward the seacoast.  "A coal-heaver still, Blakeney?" Sir Andrew Ffoulkes said quietly, noticing the others costume.

"I've become a little tired of the aristocratic masquerade," Blakeney admitted.  "I trust that the Marquis is safe?"

"St. Clair and his family are in England by now.  Exchanging yourself for Yves at the time of his arrest must be one of the greatest risks you've ever taken -- and it all hinged on the fact that so few people know your face.  It's incredibly lucky you didn't run into, say, Chauvelin."  Ffoulkes was thoroughly puzzled by the look on Blakeney's face.  "What did I say?"

When Chauvelin came to, someone was slapping his face.  Repeatedly.  Instinctively, he tried to bite the finger in front of him.  "Careful there," Angelique said.  "I don't want to get rabies or something."

Chauvelin sat up slowly.  He was still inside the cell, and Angelique was there with him.  There was no sign of Blakeney.  "How -- "

"We're locked in," Angelique informed him.  "You wouldn't happen to have any idea what happened to Yves, would you?  He must have had a lockpick in his frickin' boot.  I told the guys to strip-search him.  I even volunteered to do it.  But still, what kind of guy just walks around with a lockpick inside his frickin' boot?"  In answer, Chauvelin picked a little scrap of paper and showed her the scarlet symbol scrawled on it.  "The pimpernel," Angelique moaned.  "Man, I feel stupid."

"As you have said, Angelique, it happens to the best of us."

"Three hundred and seventy-two prisoners in my care, three hundred and seventy-two successful executions. Then he had to spoil my record." She eyed him closely.  "You don't seem too upset by this."

"I've seen it too many times, my dear," he said, pushing away the pimpernel.  "Too many times."

"I'll tell you what," Angelique decided. "When I get out, I'll catch him for you."

"Given our current situation, that is incredibly optimistic of you."

"You don't think I can do it?" Angelique said, her half-smirk returning.

"I was referring to the phrase, 'when I get out.' As you will notice, before you, you have three stone walls, many metal bars, one lock, and no key."

"I forgot to tell you." Angelique sifted through her skirts. "Industrial weight petticoats.  You can fit ANYTHING into these things." She extracted a file and tossed it to Chauvelin.  He was impressed, and started sawing.  "Don't bother," she told him.  With some more sifting, she produced a pair of skeletonic keys.

"I'm thinking we could head to some little nowhere town where noone will ever find you."

"We?"

"Oh," Angelique said, "Mr. Former Bigshot was thinking of flying solo, in a city that's after his head, while the girl's got a safe route out, plus a really nifty disguise for him to wear? Plus,"  she added, "I probably shouldn't stick around here either."

So a figure in a black dress, and a scrawny old woman wearing a wig pulled from the pocket of the other's petticoats escaped into the darkness.  "Just giving Grandma the tour," Angelique told the soldier, a childhood friend of hers.  Once they were safely outside the city, she told Chauvelin of an abandoned estate about three days away.  "Thickly wooded, very secluded, the owners all guillotined years ago.  Nobody knows it's there.  Probably still has all the furnishings inside."

"Lovely," Chauvelin said, and he meant it.  "As long as it has nice, large windows and no french-speaking englishmen, anything is lovely."

"And I'm staying with you," Angelique announced.

"I think I could live with that." Chauvelin felt calm for the first time in two and a half days. Calm, and...nonviolent.  And he said so.

"Oh, you'll be bloodthirsty soon enough," Angelique reassured him.  "I know what it's like.  Either Blakeney or Madame G. scared the crap out of you -- maybe both. Pure fear, and then eternal gratitude for being alive and free...I don't know," she considered.  "Maybe it IS enough to make a guy turn sentimental."

"Are you saying I could lose my...edge?"

"Yes," Angelique said, "and then, we're both going to become hopeless, fuzzy-bunny mushy-gushy romantics. You can start by telling me how beautiful the moon looks tonight."

"What," Chauvelin said ever so gently, "that heaven-bound piece of filth?"

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(psst! image courtesy of sirpercy.org)