A/N: This may be very hard to follow. I'm not sure. But it's Artistic!Chauvelin, and I don't think that's ever been done before. It's also probably very bad. But it's my first SP real fic (a.k.a. a fic that isn't a poem), so please go easy on me. Flames will be used to burn aristos. Or witches. And I don't own anything except the violin.
Also, Chauvelin and Percy are probably somewhat out of character, although I think Percy's ok. I tried. (In Les Mis, my first fic was so easy to write! Get a couple characters w/ hardly any character development (aka Feuilly and Babet (read Fans)) and you can fly w/them. But these folks are main characters!) And, if there's somewhere in the series that says Chauvelin doesn't play an instrument, I'm sorry. I've only read The Scarlet Pimpernel, The Elusive Pimpernel, Eldorado, and The Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel. I'm reading Sir Percy Hits Back as soon as it comes in the mail.
April, 1794
His fingers flew deftly over the strings; the bow was equally quick, parallel to the fingerboard. He played fast etudes and scale patterns, and old classical pieces from some far-off land. He never played the Ca Ira, or the Marseillaise, or any of the other Revolutionary songs; they were too vulgar, too coarse to be played on a violin.
Not even his wife had known he'd played violin, and neither had Marguerite, or Armand, or any other of his friends, which were few and far between. Only Fleurette and one other had known; she had walked in on him playing late one night, and had promised never to tell. And as for the other—
January, 1794He had let it slip during an interrogation session; it had already been eight days and Blakeney was tired. Chauvelin was tired as well, for he hadn't slept in two, as controlling soldiers on the streets, receiving new aristos and conspirators hourly, and now controlling the soldiers guarding Blakeney's cell were taking his toll on him. However, Heron was sending his assistant over to take care of the soldiers for the night, and Chauvelin was to go home and sleep.
But he didn't want to sleep first; the only things on his mind were the pieces of sheet music in his coat. He had gotten them today from a woman going into prison, and they were very recent pieces as well: three etudes written by the late Mozart, his (Mozart's, that is) Requiem, and a little three-line piece with no author, only titled 'Bohemian Folk Song.' He half-smiled at the memory of taking them from her; he had bowed mockingly, and told her, "I look forward to playing these pieces, Madame la Comtesse," and she had only glared at him and told him that if he was going to tease her would he please get it right and remember that she was a Marquise, not a Comtesse, and she hoped that God would strike him down where he stood, preferably before she got sent to the guillotine so she could watch it.
Chauvelin wearily laughed that off while he worriedly peered into her face to make sure she wasn't Marguerite in disguise. He also half-wondered if there was a God, and He would strike him down, as that was the second time he had heard that in as many days. But the music was what was important. He had tucked the pages into his coat, and headed down to Percy's cell to have his daily interrogation with the man.
Percy looked slightly brighter than he had yesterday; no doubt it was Marguerite's visit that had done so. "Odd's life, Chambertin!" he had said cheerfully, "You certainly look tired. Could use a little sleep, what?"
Chauvelin gritted his teeth at the use of the name. "I daresay you could use more than I could, non, Blakeney?"
"Demned right you are!" he said. "Sleep would be a handy thing right now! But your soldiers make so much noise it's rather hard to doze off."
Chauvelin sighed, wishing he could go home this very instant. He had had virtually this same conversation for the last seven days and was growing rather tired of it. How Marguerite managed to recite the same lines over and over again in a play without becoming bored he knew not. He replied, "I would tell the soldiers to be quiet if you merely tell me where the Dauphin is."
"But, Chambertin," Percy said, throwing his arms out like an actor, "I know not where he is! He could be anywhere on the route that is set for him and my men, and I could not tell you where!"
"All I need is the route, Blakeney." Chauvelin's pale eyes met his prisoner's slightly unfocused ones squarely.
"Lud, sir, I cannot tell you that!" Percy said cheerfully. "'Twould betray my men and the boy! But," he added congenially, "If you tied your cravat correctly you'd have a better chance of finding out."
Chauvelin merely glared at him, barely controlling his temper. He whirled and turned to leave.
However, the movement was too quick for the sheet music gently stuck in his coat. The papers fluttered to the ground. Chauvelin turned quickly, but Blakeney was even quicker. Despite his sleepless state, he reached out and grabbed the papers before Chauvelin had hardly stuck his hand out. "Lud, man! This is sheet music!"
Chauvelin ground his teeth. "I know," he said through his clenched teeth.
"Why would such an…ah, esteemed man of your…stature be carrying around simple sheet music such as this?" He thought for a moment. "Ah! I know! You took it off some poor aristo going into prison! Zooks, man! What do you need it for?"
Chauvelin glared at him. "May I please have it back?"
Blakeney laughed his inane laugh, although it was not nearly as strong as it had been a few days ago. "It can't hurt for you to tell me why you want it! I won't give it back until you do!"
Chauvelin was now physically restraining himself from hurting the man in front of him.. "I—play—the—violin."
Blakeney merely stared at him, the lazy look in his eyes all but gone, and rather replaced by shock.
Chauvelin felt a need to explain himself. "I have played it for years. 'Tis an old habit, I guess." He sighed wearily. "Now, may I have my music back?"
Blakeney handed the music back to him and laughed again. "Never fear, Monsieur Chambertin, I'll keep your secret."
April, 1794That was when he had had the power. Now, he was waiting for the Tribunal to arrest him, waiting, essentially, for the guillotine. He had packed what was precious to him in a box; his wife's Bible (while he didn't care for God, the book was hers), Fluerette's first dress and its matching shoes, a tricolor scarf, and all the sheet music he had ever owned. He didn't know why he packed the box, maybe so he could throw it into the Seine as a memoriam to his life, or have someone burn it so no one could ever get to the things he loved. But he sat on the crate now, playing his violin, waiting. Waiting for death.
And yet the music calmed him, like it always had. The notes flowed in and out of his soul, blending together to create music so exquisitely beautiful that one would not expect it to be Citizen Chauvelin, Official of the French Government, small, pale-eyed, with a fox-like face, a man who delighted in anarchy and longed to vanquish the Scarlet Pimpernel. When he was a child he had longed to play professionally, but after the death of his parents, he simply played. His desire to be famous vanished, replaced with a desire to end the evil of the maoarchy, but even that had faded, to be replaced with only one obsession: to rid the world of his worst enemy, the Scarlet Pimpernel.
But there was nothing now. Nothing save the music, so perfectly memorized that he could see every marking on the paper, even the splotch of ink left there from when he had accidentally spilled some on the sheet while writing a letter. Everything around him vanished; he wasn't thinking of the guillotine or death, despite the fact that in his subconscious he could hear men clomping up the steps. The inevitable would happen; oh, he had no doubt of that, but for now he was the music, and even the guillotine could wait.
Halfway through Bach's Partita No. 2 In D Minor: III Sarabande, the door burst open. Chauvelin stood quickly, and was more than a little surprised to discover two extremely dirty coal-heavers (one that also happened to be extremely tall), instead of the police. The tall coal-heaver grinned and told Chauvelin, "Oh, good, Chambertin, you've packed!" Then he started forward and picked up the box.
Chauvelin tried to talk, but found his throat was very dry. He finally managed to croak, "What?…"
"'Tis simple, Chambertin," said Blakeney, as he walked out of the room. "You play the violin."