Welcome all. This is another Scarlet Pimpernel fic. Never saw that coming, did you? Anyway, I'm having this take place after Marguerite arrives in Paris to save Armand. And yes, this is based on the musical, which I personally like better. Deal with it. It should be noted that this will be heavily Chauvelin/Marguerite. If you don't like that sort of thing, I invite you to read anyway, for I plan on having Percy show up and save the day, blah blah blah. And please review. I really do need the feedback.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Scarlet Pimpernel. So's my life.
Falcon in the Dive
Chapter 1: Into the Fire
In the heart of Paris there is a café that stands as a sort of military hangout. Around the clock the café is filled with often drunk soldiers and the women who entertained them, so to speak. At that moment, a stunning woman was sitting on the lap of one soldier as her head rested on the chest of another, the three of them seemingly slightly, if not very drunk.
"But you are lying to me!" the young woman exclaimed as she playfully hit the chest of one of the soldiers. This man happened to be none other then Citizen Coupeau, one of the trusted confidents of the Agent Chauvelin.
"No! We captured the boy last week." Coupeau retorted as he pulled the girl back against him. "He is a member of the league of the Scarlet Pimpernel."
"And he is here?" the woman asked in disbelief.
"We interrogate him here secretly so the Pimpernel can't find him." The other soldier, Mercier, Chauvelin's other confident, responded.
The woman, sporting a wig and stage make-up, was, of course, none other then Marguerite St. Just, star of the stage and, at this moment, completely unrecognizable. She had even convinced herself that not even Chauvelin himself could see through her disguise. She doubted, though, that he had returned from his recent trip to England. His soldiers would never be so unguarded had he been in Paris.
"Oh, you soldiers tell such tales." Marguerite stated with disappointment. "Just because I am new to Paris, you think I'll believe anything."
"But it's true!" cried Coupeau.
"Oh, then prove it to me," said an incredulous Marguerite, dismissively waving a delicate hand in the air. "You show me this boy, this, this- "
"St. Just. He's a Frenchman. Armand St. Just." Mercier interjected.
"Yes, but if it were true, you would show him to me. And if he does exist," she excitedly said, "Dieu, what fun to tell my friends I have seen this prisoner. And later tonight," she slipped her hand under Coupeau's uniform jacket and ran it over his chest, "what fun we three will have together, hmm?"
Coupeau's face flushed and his breath quickened. "I'll get the keys." He said in a near dream-like state as he got up to retrieve the keys to Armand's cell.
Marguerite was elated. That was far easier then she had previously imagined. Eager to get away from the remaining soldier, she excused herself and joined the ranks of singing women in the center of the café. She sang the song, a French song that they happened to be singing in English, with all her heart. She had not been this happy in months. Her hastily made plan had worked like a charm and her brother would soon be safe. She saw Coupeau re-enter with the promised keys and her heart took flight. She could almost see Armand she was so close to him now. When the song was over, she would rush to the side of Mercier and Coupeau and they would deliver her to her brother. Marguerite allowed herself to finally relax; Armand was a good as free.
Marguerite was pulled out of her euphoric revere by an incredibly handsome vision that filled her with terror. It was at this moment that Citizen Chauvelin, the most feared agent of the French Republic, walked into the café.
A look of abject horror crossed Marguerite's face, but she quickly caught herself and resumed the act. Perhaps she could elude him. There was a possibility that he didn't recognize her, and she was certain that he had not seen her.
She cast a glance at him and found him scanning the room, his eyes quickly running over every face. She hurriedly looked away to avoid his passing gaze.
After a moment, she absolutely had to know what he was up to. Out of the corner of her eye, she looked to where he stood and her eyes met his. Those pale, yellow eyes seemed to hold her for an eternity; they were searing and she felt as though he was looking into her very soul.
She saw his expression change from one of surprise and disbelief to one of triumph, malice, and passion. The crowd in the café prated for Chauvelin as he quickly strode toward her and she could not find the courage within her to try and escape. Chauvelin grabbed Marguerite by the arm and pulled her against him. His triumphant voice rose above all others and the entire room was silenced.
"Mis amis! Please welcome back to France, in her first return engagement, Mademoiselle Marguerite St. Just!" Chauvelin ripped off Marguerites wig and wrapped his arm around her slender waist, pulled her even closer, and buried his head in her hair, inhaling the scent of rose. He let out a shuddering breath; being so near this woman was driving him mad and his passion nearly overwhelmed him. However, he had her now, and there would be no escape for Marguerite St. Just.
He had time to revel in her presence later; for now, he had a job to do. He once again addressed the crowd, but his once triumphant voice was gone and replaced by contempt. "And now perhaps she will sing the song for us the way it was meant to be sung. That is, if she still. Speaks. French!" He spat these last words as he pushed her forward into the center of attention.
Marguerite was terrified, distraught, and absolutely furious. Her brother had nearly been saved, and now she could see his head under the blade of the Guillotine, and this man would be at fault for Armand's death. Chauvelin still possessed absolute control over her life. What choice did she have but to comply with his wishes? After all, Armand wasn't dead yet. If she did exactly as the agent said, perhaps she could still save her brother. Gathering up her nerve, she continued and finished the song in her native tongue and was met with the applause and cheers of the occupants of the café.
As she turned to escape the crowd, a pair of strong hands rested on her shoulders and ran down her arms. Marguerite shivered as powerful arms encircled her waist and pulled her against a muscular body. Her pulse raced and her breathing quickened as a deep, silken voice whispered in her ear "Welcome home, Marguerite."