Author's note: This story is adapted from a Scarlet Pimpernel RPG that a friend of mine and I took part in over the course of three years. So the credit doesn't only go to me, it's also Velvedere's. There will be lots of chapters, and a rather unsatisfying ending… Some ChauChau/Margot and some Percy/Margot and some Armand/Made-up character relations…. Reviews make me post more chapters. Au revoir!
Through the forests and along rivers of the English countryside there was a wide gravel and dirt path often used by travelers, whether on foot, horseback, or carriage. It connected many of the rural towns, and was also the main path of travel to the Blakeney mansion. Along this path a solitary figure walked, a pack of supplies slung over his shoulder. It was a young man, probably no older than twenty, dressed in the clothes of a simple French traveler: a frock coat, ragged trousers, and a large floppy hat that shielded his mane of dark brown hair from the hot summer sun. Humming a cheerful, gently rolling tune as he walked steadily along, the young man was well aware of the carriage approaching from behind and as any rational traveler would do, stepped out of the way.
The carriage was drawn by four black horses, as black as the wood which they pulled, and one would not expect such beautiful animals to be driven so harshly under the hot sun. But their driver lashed his whip, urging the horses on to greater speeds down the dirt path. Normally the young Frenchman would have been easily missed once he stepped out of the way of the carriage, but the driver seemed to have other ideas. Pulling his reigns with a fierce cry to the horses, he veered the carriage sharply to the left. What followed was a mix between a human cry as the Frenchman was born down upon and a high whinny as the horses reared to try and avoid trampling the young man. The horses turned sharply back as their reigns were pulled, and yet the man as bowled over by the blow of the horses and carriage, knocked into the dry grass and shrubs that lined the path. The carriage rattled on down the road, driven steadily as though the driver had noticed nothing. Shaking dust from his eyes, the young man pushed himself up, wary of his aches as well as casting a spiteful glare after the black carriage. His bag lay in the middle of the road, flattened and torn by wheels and horse hooves. The young man brushed dust and dirt from his clothes as he stood up and shouted a curse in deep French at the vanishing black form. Picking up his bag, he salvaged what he could from the mess, readjusted his hat, and began walking again. No humming was heard this time, and replacing the traveler's former merry mood was an expression of grim determination.
Armand St. Just watched until the carriage's dust had completely disappeared, and kept walking, leaning into his steps as if walking into the wind, his voice a low mutter. "Ma chère soeur avait raison au sujet de lui..."
Nearly at the same time the black carriage drawn by four foaming horses pulled up before the grand entrance to the Blakeney mansion. A sturdy "Whoa!" as the driver pulled the reins, and when the carriage came to a complete stop the driver stood and with practiced ease slid down to the ground, where a stable boy approached and was given the leads to the horses. The driver waited until the carriage was driven to the stable, but rather than approaching the door to announce himself like any normal visitor he paused a moment before the house, gazing up. The man was clad entirely in black, odd for such a hot day, and was a tall, thin figure. A pale hand rose up to push back the black hat concealing much of his face and revealed beneath it a man of French origin with a tied-back mane of brown hair and a shifty, fox-like disposition. His dark eyes rising up to the bay windows above, open to the fresh air in the heat of summer, he folded the hat under his arm and called out clearly in a moderate baritone voice to whomever should be listening: "Madame St. Just!"
*~*~*~*
Marguerite stifled her tears as quietly and quickly as possible… she knew that voice. Standing up a little shakily, still gulping from her crying, she crossed over to the large bedroom window and peered out at the man standing below. "Paul!" she cried out, happier than she probably should have been to see him. Not aware of her husband's grief downstairs-how could she be?-he was probably entertaining her friends, who sat on the veranda, forgotten. "Chauvelin, mon amis! I'll-I'll let you in." she called down, even though she could have rang for a servant. Trotting down the stairs, she furtively checked for her husband. Not in sight. Opening the door with some difficulty, she held up the front of her dress and almost ran down the path to the door and up to her---not her friend. She wasn't sure of Chauvelin's status in her mind, but she wasn't at all sure it was 'friend'. "Monsieur Chauvelin," she said, breathlessly. "What are you doing here?" she didn't mean it to come out sounding rude, and it didn't-she still sounded happy. And she was. With all of this that had happened-no matter how much she loved her husband and mistrusted this man-it was nice to have some connection of sorts to an outside world with none of the inanities that her life now contained.
Chauvelin visibly brightened at the visible and vocal confirmation that she who he had come to see was indeed there. His grin grew wider as she hurried down to meet him...alone. Straightening, he brushed his clothes off again, and as she hurried out he stepped forward eagerly. "Mademoiselle," he said in reply, bowing in a courtly manner to take hold of her hand and kiss the back of it. Gazing up towards her face with those dark, fox-like eyes he let them rove over her features. He could still see the young, enterprising actress there. Little Marguerite... "Pleasure to see you, Madame." His smile turned genuinely warm, and straightening again he drew in a breath to speak further, but never made it.
Percy didn't know how long he had sat there, perhaps fallen asleep, before the sound of horse hooves and a voice—Marguerite's voice—put him back on alert. Straightening in the chair, he blinked and gazed about him, as though having forgotten where he was. The rest of the house was quiet. Pushing himself up, grunting with the strain of his stiff back, Percy brushed back his hair and straightened his clothes before shakily heading for the front door to investigate.
The sight of his wife being kissed by another man, even if it were just on her hand, flared up intense sparks of jealousy and rage inside him that Percy didn't know he possessed. Standing concealed in the entrance way, gazing out through the front door which Marguerite had left open, he took a quick evaluation of the visitor. A revolutionary, he growled inwardly, noting the red, white, and blue sash tied around the visitor's waist. Not kissing MY wife! Carefully the tall Englishman slipped the scarlet-red ring from his finger into the safety of his pocket, and barely taking time to wipe the redness from around his eyes he bounded out.
"La! I thought I heard someone come about!" he called in his trademark voice of a complete ninny, holding aloft the letter he had withdrawn from his pocket. "Pardon, Madame, I had forgotten to inform you: a letter had arrived announcing a visitor who requested your presence. Sink me, where the memory goes!" Stepping to Marguerite's side, yet keeping a mental note of staying a just distance away, he paused as though noticing Chauvelin for the first time, and his face lit up in surprise. "I say now, chap, isn't it a tad hot out here to be in such a black outfit? Ah, well, I suppose not. It matches the carriage and horses, wot? Always said the French were well-coordinated." This was followed by a loud, haughty, inane laugh, during which Chauvelin said nothing but rather cast a glance at Marguerite. It was a questioning gaze, wondering if this fool was for real and whether or not he should be polite. He could only assume this was the renowned Percival Blakeney, rich aristocrat and husband to Marguerite. If it weren't for these factors Chauvelin would have thought nothing about smacking the idiot aside with as much regard as he had that peasant back on the road...
Percy was all the while eying this stranger up and down. His eyes, normally lazy and carefree, were intense with hatred and instant disliking directed towards this stranger whom he knew by name but not by face. The glare, however, went unnoticed as the stranger was looking at his wife—again—and disguised by his voice, which went unchanged. "Well, Madame, who is your friend then?"
A/N: Reviews? Please? There will be more plot-nice and dramatic- as time goes on. I promise.
Through the forests and along rivers of the English countryside there was a wide gravel and dirt path often used by travelers, whether on foot, horseback, or carriage. It connected many of the rural towns, and was also the main path of travel to the Blakeney mansion. Along this path a solitary figure walked, a pack of supplies slung over his shoulder. It was a young man, probably no older than twenty, dressed in the clothes of a simple French traveler: a frock coat, ragged trousers, and a large floppy hat that shielded his mane of dark brown hair from the hot summer sun. Humming a cheerful, gently rolling tune as he walked steadily along, the young man was well aware of the carriage approaching from behind and as any rational traveler would do, stepped out of the way.
The carriage was drawn by four black horses, as black as the wood which they pulled, and one would not expect such beautiful animals to be driven so harshly under the hot sun. But their driver lashed his whip, urging the horses on to greater speeds down the dirt path. Normally the young Frenchman would have been easily missed once he stepped out of the way of the carriage, but the driver seemed to have other ideas. Pulling his reigns with a fierce cry to the horses, he veered the carriage sharply to the left. What followed was a mix between a human cry as the Frenchman was born down upon and a high whinny as the horses reared to try and avoid trampling the young man. The horses turned sharply back as their reigns were pulled, and yet the man as bowled over by the blow of the horses and carriage, knocked into the dry grass and shrubs that lined the path. The carriage rattled on down the road, driven steadily as though the driver had noticed nothing. Shaking dust from his eyes, the young man pushed himself up, wary of his aches as well as casting a spiteful glare after the black carriage. His bag lay in the middle of the road, flattened and torn by wheels and horse hooves. The young man brushed dust and dirt from his clothes as he stood up and shouted a curse in deep French at the vanishing black form. Picking up his bag, he salvaged what he could from the mess, readjusted his hat, and began walking again. No humming was heard this time, and replacing the traveler's former merry mood was an expression of grim determination.
Armand St. Just watched until the carriage's dust had completely disappeared, and kept walking, leaning into his steps as if walking into the wind, his voice a low mutter. "Ma chère soeur avait raison au sujet de lui..."
Nearly at the same time the black carriage drawn by four foaming horses pulled up before the grand entrance to the Blakeney mansion. A sturdy "Whoa!" as the driver pulled the reins, and when the carriage came to a complete stop the driver stood and with practiced ease slid down to the ground, where a stable boy approached and was given the leads to the horses. The driver waited until the carriage was driven to the stable, but rather than approaching the door to announce himself like any normal visitor he paused a moment before the house, gazing up. The man was clad entirely in black, odd for such a hot day, and was a tall, thin figure. A pale hand rose up to push back the black hat concealing much of his face and revealed beneath it a man of French origin with a tied-back mane of brown hair and a shifty, fox-like disposition. His dark eyes rising up to the bay windows above, open to the fresh air in the heat of summer, he folded the hat under his arm and called out clearly in a moderate baritone voice to whomever should be listening: "Madame St. Just!"
*~*~*~*
Marguerite stifled her tears as quietly and quickly as possible… she knew that voice. Standing up a little shakily, still gulping from her crying, she crossed over to the large bedroom window and peered out at the man standing below. "Paul!" she cried out, happier than she probably should have been to see him. Not aware of her husband's grief downstairs-how could she be?-he was probably entertaining her friends, who sat on the veranda, forgotten. "Chauvelin, mon amis! I'll-I'll let you in." she called down, even though she could have rang for a servant. Trotting down the stairs, she furtively checked for her husband. Not in sight. Opening the door with some difficulty, she held up the front of her dress and almost ran down the path to the door and up to her---not her friend. She wasn't sure of Chauvelin's status in her mind, but she wasn't at all sure it was 'friend'. "Monsieur Chauvelin," she said, breathlessly. "What are you doing here?" she didn't mean it to come out sounding rude, and it didn't-she still sounded happy. And she was. With all of this that had happened-no matter how much she loved her husband and mistrusted this man-it was nice to have some connection of sorts to an outside world with none of the inanities that her life now contained.
Chauvelin visibly brightened at the visible and vocal confirmation that she who he had come to see was indeed there. His grin grew wider as she hurried down to meet him...alone. Straightening, he brushed his clothes off again, and as she hurried out he stepped forward eagerly. "Mademoiselle," he said in reply, bowing in a courtly manner to take hold of her hand and kiss the back of it. Gazing up towards her face with those dark, fox-like eyes he let them rove over her features. He could still see the young, enterprising actress there. Little Marguerite... "Pleasure to see you, Madame." His smile turned genuinely warm, and straightening again he drew in a breath to speak further, but never made it.
Percy didn't know how long he had sat there, perhaps fallen asleep, before the sound of horse hooves and a voice—Marguerite's voice—put him back on alert. Straightening in the chair, he blinked and gazed about him, as though having forgotten where he was. The rest of the house was quiet. Pushing himself up, grunting with the strain of his stiff back, Percy brushed back his hair and straightened his clothes before shakily heading for the front door to investigate.
The sight of his wife being kissed by another man, even if it were just on her hand, flared up intense sparks of jealousy and rage inside him that Percy didn't know he possessed. Standing concealed in the entrance way, gazing out through the front door which Marguerite had left open, he took a quick evaluation of the visitor. A revolutionary, he growled inwardly, noting the red, white, and blue sash tied around the visitor's waist. Not kissing MY wife! Carefully the tall Englishman slipped the scarlet-red ring from his finger into the safety of his pocket, and barely taking time to wipe the redness from around his eyes he bounded out.
"La! I thought I heard someone come about!" he called in his trademark voice of a complete ninny, holding aloft the letter he had withdrawn from his pocket. "Pardon, Madame, I had forgotten to inform you: a letter had arrived announcing a visitor who requested your presence. Sink me, where the memory goes!" Stepping to Marguerite's side, yet keeping a mental note of staying a just distance away, he paused as though noticing Chauvelin for the first time, and his face lit up in surprise. "I say now, chap, isn't it a tad hot out here to be in such a black outfit? Ah, well, I suppose not. It matches the carriage and horses, wot? Always said the French were well-coordinated." This was followed by a loud, haughty, inane laugh, during which Chauvelin said nothing but rather cast a glance at Marguerite. It was a questioning gaze, wondering if this fool was for real and whether or not he should be polite. He could only assume this was the renowned Percival Blakeney, rich aristocrat and husband to Marguerite. If it weren't for these factors Chauvelin would have thought nothing about smacking the idiot aside with as much regard as he had that peasant back on the road...
Percy was all the while eying this stranger up and down. His eyes, normally lazy and carefree, were intense with hatred and instant disliking directed towards this stranger whom he knew by name but not by face. The glare, however, went unnoticed as the stranger was looking at his wife—again—and disguised by his voice, which went unchanged. "Well, Madame, who is your friend then?"
A/N: Reviews? Please? There will be more plot-nice and dramatic- as time goes on. I promise.