The Scarlet Pimpernel: Sons of France

Chapter 1: The Old and the New

(Paris, France after the Revolution)

Lord Anthony expected a jest, a laugh, a party—any sign of jubilation from England's handsomest dandy. But Sir Percy Blakeney did not so much as drink a toast in celebration of his adversary's final defeat.

"Look here, old chap; I thought you were a sportsman!" exclaimed Tony, clapping his friend on the back. "Don't say you're so much the philanthropist that seeing the Fox's head fall was not the least bit satisfactory!"

Percy fixed his eyes on Tony, and those sea-blue windows dared to let an expression creep through: a hint of distaste. But when Percy smiled, blinked his eyes, and brushed the untied strand of blond hair from his forehead, the look of a fool was back on his face. "Why, m'dear Tony," he said, drawly, "methinks the sort of satisfaction of blood spilled in the basket…is not agreeable to respectable man after a fine meal…unless of course, the highly honorable personage is one of them demmed ruffians who built the contraption himself. Sink me, but even I never supposed our old friend Chauvelin would come to an end so suddenly."

Percy closed his eyes for a moment and relieved the scene which took place only this afternoon, and which Percy and his comrades, though present, had had no hand in arranging. There he was, Percy the master of disguise dressed as a poor French beggar and surrounded by his fellow jocular lords similarly attired. Thinking it great fun to include the equal and brotherly peasants in his dirty work, the executioner who controlled the guillotine demanded that one citizen rise form the crowd and take his turn at the murderous machine. Laughingly and with unspeakable malice, the executioner pointed to a boy not ten years old.

"Come and try the game," he roared at the child. "Put the traitors to death with your very own hands!"

Percy intervened, fortunately for the child who was looking innocent and quite sick. In his roughest voice, Percy demanded that he would very much like to put a traitor to death; and up to the guillotine he came. Tony and Andrew watched anxiously, wondering what their chief would do. What could Percy do?—certainly he would not control the deadly contraption himself, murdering in cold blood; yet if he refused to do so, it would be his head beneath the guillotine next.

The very first "traitor" who was led to his death was not an aristocrat; indeed, there were few aristocratic heads falling these days, for Napoleon had risen to power and was beginning the Bourbon Restoration. With the re-installment of the aristocracy, it was only conspirators within the government who were put to death. The Reign of Terror was over. Thus it was not surprising that, still dressed in the inevitable black, still sharp as a fox and cool as a cucumber, Chauvelin was being led to his death.

Was Percy tempted to do the job himself: to kill his arch-nemesis? Tony and Andrew could not say, for their chief's face was unreadable. Percy acted quickly; he gave a great shout and a curse, pretending to cut his hand on the knife of the guillotine while preparing it for its most admirable patriotic duty. The disappointed executioner told Percy to get off the platform and let a professional do the job, but before obeying, Percy paused beside the impassive Chauvelin.

"What are you staring at, dog?" growled Chauvelin. When he looked Percy straight in the eye, however, recognition was momentary. Chauvelin turned deathly pale, his eyes widened, and his face emanated shock, hate, and incredulity. "The Scarlet Pimpernel," he mouthed, but no words were audible.

Percy chuckled ever so quietly, and patted Chauvelin on the back. "Well, if isn't Chaubertin!" he whispered. "I shall give your regards to everyone back at Blakeney. I'm dreadfully sorry I can't save you; had I come prepared I would have tried, for I hate to see anyone die, even the dirty and black-hearted criminals. Well, m'dear fellow, 'twould seem I've beaten you for the last time, eh? Cheerio."

Thus descending the platform, Percy joined his comrades. As they hurried away from the Square, they dared to look behind them just once. Chauvelin, his face still deathly white, had evidently replaced his shock with madness. The hate building up all these years, and the terrible, unspeakable humiliation of his last meeting with his nemesis, effectually drove Chauvelin out of his mind. He struggled in the hands of the executioner and screamed to the very top of his lungs, pointing at the retreating Englishman, "The scarlet Pimpernel lives! He's a ghost, he's a demon! Aahhhhhhhh! No! The Englishman is here! He will haunt us forever!" His bloodcurdling screams filled the whole Square and the alleys and houses beyond. "The ghost," he continued, "the pimpernel! The Scarlet—"

But here his wail was stopped as the knife came down. Andrew and Tony watched, and there was a hint of a smile of the latter's face. But Percy did not see Chauvelin's head fall. He had covered his eyes. "Le Bon Dieu decides," he murmured; "not I."

Now back in England, the irrepressible hero and his family and comrades were having a peaceful dinner party. Everyone was here; Marguerite, Tony, Andrew, Hastings, the Prince—even Armand with Jeanne whom he had recently married.

Tony nodded his comprehension of Sir Percy's attitude. "Perhaps I was a bit sadistic this afternoon, Percy. I'm only glad that our work is done I may brag to the ladies."

"You'll have to do a good bit of bragging, Tony," laughed Percy; "to make up for lost time. I see you and Hastings both are the only bachelors left in the party, eh wot? Even our stiff-necked young Armand has got himself a gal."

"And a French one, too," said Tony. "It seems that France is the ideal place for gals."

"I'm sick of France," said Hastings.

The whole party laughed. "But all jests aside," said Armand, always less jocular than the rest, "is our work in France truly done? I know you summoned us all here, Percy, for a reason; but you have not yet explained your raison d'être. What did you discover in France this afternoon?"

"Have patience, my young friend," said Percy merrily. "I shall tell you what we learned in France…all in good time. First, I must introduce to all present a recent addition to my circle of friends. It was for the purpose of meeting my bonnie new acquaintance that I arranged this party. My new friend, she is a young lady whose loveliness is unmatched in all the world."

Tony smiled. "And I did not even need to arrange a trip to France."

Percy frowned. "Younger than that, Tony; younger. Follow me, and you must all stay very quiet."

Much to the curiosity of the group, Percy and Marguerite led them into the upper chambers of Blakeney manor, into a very fine nursery. A single candle burned on the windowsill, giving just enough light to make visible a small cradle, decorated with the finest lace blankets, in which lay a tiny infant. It snoozed quietly, its large eyes closed, and what small amount of hair it had was fair. The baby was so little, but it already bore a resemblance to its father, with the straight clear brow, light hair, and slender hands.

"Percy, you rascal," whispered Andrew. "You didn't tell us!" He turned and bowed to Marguerite. "Congratulations, Madame! Your daughter shall grace us with her beauty as she grows and matures. She already looks so like her father. May I inquire as to her name?"

"We decided to call her Scarlet," answered Marguerite with a grateful smile; "and I daresay you all comprehend the meaning of such a name."

There was great rejoicing and celebration of Percy's daughter. Yet all parties must end, and soon all the guests had cleared away with the exception of Armand; Jeanne had gone ahead in the carriage, too weary to stay up any later. By One O'clock in the morning, only Percy, his wife, and her brother stood in the parlor; the grand parlor which was lit up by a majestic fireplace and decorated with tapestries upon which was embroidered the unavoidable Scarlet Pimpernel.

"You are so glum today, young scalawag," remarked Percy, with a glance at Armand.

The latter was pacing the room restlessly, running a hand through his long, dark, tied-back hair. His deep brown eyes shifted their gaze constantly; Armand was restless. "I am only anxious to set about the next mission," he explained. "I am not as experienced with reading your emotions as Ffoulks, but I am most certain that your era as Scarlet Pimpernel has not reached its climax. Yet now you have a daughter to care for, and who will you rescue since the Reign of Terror is done with?"

Percy carelessly played with his monocle. "Alas, I'm afraid I shall disappoint our dear friend Dewhurst when he hears that our work is indeed far from over," he said. "Napoleon has not yet proved himself to be a good or wise old chap…but I suppose we ought to give him the benefit of the doubt…with the Bourbon Restoration and all that, wot?"

Armand creased his quizzical brow. "Percy, what are getting at?"

"I'll wager me own grandmother that there are an awful lot of good fellows snatched away from their country…who have a mind to return. What I am suggesting, m'dear St. Just, is that we give those bloody aristos a more pleasurable and safe journey back to their homeland…a journey excluding any remaining enemies of the aristocracy." The grand leader's face grew suddenly serious. The drawly tone was gone from his voice and was replaced by the low, calm voice of the Real Percy, with its passionate undertone. "Armand, this is my duty," he stated. "I hereby release you and the League from your oaths, now that the Terror is done with; but I shall continue to help the poor souls who desire to return to France. It's out with the old mission and on with the new."

Armand looked troubled. He shrugged his shoulders and said, "Blakeney…I've heard this Restoration described as the homecoming of the great sons and daughters of France. You with all your philanthropy, surely you do not deem the aristocracy any greater than the other classes of citizens? Surely you believe that it is neither righteous nor just that the lords and ladies may sit upon a fine hot afternoon and devour cordial and cake while reclining on their sofas, whilst the peasants toil and strive to keep from starvation?" Armand slammed his fists down upon the parlor table.

His dark, radical eyes flashed up once at Percy, but he was met only by a calm silence. "Percy, come now!" Armand exclaimed. "I was not born wealthy; Marguerite and I were poor orphans till she met with fame at the theatre. How can you say one man is greater than another?"

Percy chuckled. "Sink me, you young thing, but I have not even given an answer yet. A man's worth is defined by his heart—there, even an Englishman can admit that adventures and popularity do not sum up a man's character. Certainly, it is not right for the poor to be taken advantage of, wot! Wait and see, however, if the unjust treatment of the poor does not improve; for many having experienced such humbling conditions themselves, some aristocrats must have learned something of fair play."

"I'm sorry," said Armand quietly; "I did not mean to accuse you. …I am merely tired."

Percy laughed. "You are not tired, but paranoid and under the false belief that I am dealing you some sort of distaste. If I know a St. Just, and I have known one or two in my life, this frightful behavior can only mean one thing: you are about to ask me a question, to which my reply will undoubtedly be in the negative; and thus your sensitivity to my every expression. I'll be blown if you ain't a juvenile frog-eater uncommonly easy to read!"

Armand grumbled, "Do stop making sport of me! I will ask you: yes, even in the presence of my most beloved sister, I will ask a private question of you." Armand knelt beside Percy and bowed his head. "I am confounded. You know it is so. Keeping my treachery undisclosed through the years has done nothing to excuse my wrongs, and I am sick of secret shame. By suffering punishment, I wish to win back the honor which I sold; and you who I have wronged and betrayed must deal out the punishment."

Marguerite had been very quiet all this time, her eyes never leaving Percy. Many days she had been trying desperately to read her husband's thoughts and guess the most insane way he could sacrifice himself for the sake of others. Now, with the Bourbon Restoration, she understood his next scheme; at which point the little woman's large blue eyes crowded with tears. Why must Percy keep leaving her?

Then, when Armand made his sudden proclamation to Percy, Marguerite's mind was distracted from her grief and she became utterly puzzled. "My dear Armand!" she exclaimed. "What can you mean by all this? You have not harmed Percy…I would know if you had committed any crime."

Armand's next move was heartrending. He meant to look up at his sister and begin to calmly disclose the truth about what happened during the rescue of the Douphin—the way he hotheadedly broken his oath and betrayed Percy in the hope of rescuing Jeanne—but when he turned his young face up to Marguerite, Armand's eyes moistened slightly with tears and he could not speak for fear of his voice cracking. Although St. Just had always been more dramatic and vulnerable than the rest of the League, here his susceptibility was at its peak.

Marguerite knelt down on the carpet beside her brother, and then came the hardest part for Armand: telling the whole story, not excluding the least detail of his foolishness. While Marguerite and her brother spoke of the past, Percy did not feel it his place to interfere; but he stood stock-still with a grim look on his hard face. Blakeney had never wanted Armand to confess and be shamed; he wanted it secret so his young friend would be protected.

At last Armand finished his story and Marguerite drew back, horror on her face. Here Percy intervened. "I know it is quite impossible," he laughed, "to change your mind about anything, Armand. I shall give you the chance to win back your honor by serving me in the Bourbon Restoration; but sir, may know this: you broke an oath for love's sake, and were tricked into doing so by Chauvelin himself. Even had your crime been inexcusable," added the grand leader with a solemn expression, "I have come to realize that neither myself nor any other man on this earth can judge of a man's honor. Le Bon Dieu decides; not I."

Armand sprang to his feet, bowed to Percy, and said, "I am ever at your service, Blakeney! Let me know as soon as you need me; now I must get back to my Jeanne. From now on my life will be better; out with the old shame and onto new glory! I shall redeem myself!" And as lightly as a delighted child, he sprang out the door and ran all the way to his new residence across the river.

In the dark corner of an English Tavern not too far from Blakeney Manor sat an elderly Frenchman clad in fine, stylish clothes. His wife sat wit him, and they both had a sour look about them. Upon the table untouched were some light refreshments, but the object of interest to the old couple was the blood-stained letter in front of them. It was a notice from France informative of the death of certain conspirator against Napoleon, accompanied by a personal letter from the executed victim.

"He has given us his last request," said the old man sullenly. "Chauvelin, my close cousin, was killed this very afternoon on charge of conspiracy against Bonaparte. He demands that we continue his life's work and avenge him justly."

The sour old woman reeled back in disgust. "When your cousin left the aristocracy to join the ranks of the Revolutionaries, I knew it would come to naught! I suppose we must comply with him, for it was Chauvelin who granted us immunity from execution many times. Yet I have a son to look after: the very nephew in whom Chauvelin delighted, for he had future plans for the boy."

"You must take care of Chauvelin's brat," ordered the aristocrat. "I shall do the rest."

"I say, what did Chauvelin mean about continuing his life's work?" asked the other. "I suppose he wants us to endanger our lives by plotting against Bonaparte."

The old man shook his gray head. "Nay, we need not risk our lives over the favor Chauvelin asks of us; for in this letter he describes the purpose of his life not as loyalty to the Republic, but as the hunter of the infamous ghost, The Scarlet Pimpernel. I do not know the Pimpernel's identity, but Chauvelin signed this letter in his own blood that if we do not continue to hunt the Englishman, his spirit can never be at rest."

"Spirits," scoffed the woman scornfully. "You, Sir leGourd, cannot believe in such things!"

The old man, leGourd, shrugged his frail shoulders. "They say the Pimpernel himself might be a spirit. All superstition aside, a bit of the old aristocratic honor still hangs in my mind, for it was beat into me as a boy; and in return for the favors Chauvelin has performed for our benefit, I feel inclined to comply with his wish. I shall become as Chauvelin himself; I will be his avenger. If I once rest while the Pimpernel lives, let me be struck dead at once for shame. I shall redeem myself."

Old Sir leGourd and old Lady leGourd then left the tavern. The fire of vengeance was burning in the vengeful eyes of the aged aristo, and his sweating hand grasped the last words of Chauvelin, signed in blood.

Unsuspecting, Percy and Marguerite looked adoringly down on their sleeping babe, kissed each other goodnight, and went to sleep.