A small note to the reader:

This was written as occurring between the time when Sir Andrew leaves Lady Blakeney at the Chat Gris to look for her husband and when Sir Percy meets the cunning Monsieur Chauvelin at the same establishment.

This was based on the novel The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy and all characters mentioned within belong to her.

I pray ye ladies and gentlemen be gentle with your humble servant. Tis my first published fanfiction and, although I daresay I am quite pleased with it, some of you may be less inclined to think as highly of my work. Criticism is welcomed freely but I beg you be constructive an you give it. I apologize if the references seem somewhat vague. Your graces needs read the above-mentioned work for everything to make sense though I suppose I am merely being redundant.

I thank you all heartily for reading this. I hope it is enjoyed.

R.E.

The Road to the Chat Gris

Sir Andrew walked hurriedly from the Chat Gris through the muddied streets of Calais. Where was his friend and leader? That impertinent innkeeper Brogard had said that he was ordering a horse and cart and would be back for supper presently. Was the cart part of his plan to save Armand and de Tourney? The young man had been forbidden to go to France to help in the rescue attempt and yet now here he was, feverishly searching for the esteemed leader whom he had disobeyed.

"Percy will flay me for this," he thought as he rounded a corner to another ill-lit street. "I only pray that I can find him before it is too late." The moon was hidden behind a veil of clouds and it was difficult to see much of anything outside of what lay within the small pools of light scattered about the windows and sputtering lamps that lined the street. A dark figure loomed in the shadow of an alley, dangerously close to the unsuspecting Sir Andrew.

"I say old chap, could you help a man? I'm afraid I have become quite lost in this dreadful city." Sir Andrew froze at the sound of the inane, thoroughly British drawl. Turning on his heel he was met with six feet odd of gorgeousness in the form of Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart. Sir Andrew could do nothing but stare at him. He was dressed in a beautiful coat and riding suit, the same he had been wearing when he had left poor Marguerite for London. And despite the long journey by horseback he had taken from Richmond, his many-caped overcoat sat perfectly across his broad shoulders, the finest Mechlin lace hung immaculately at his wrists and not a drop of mud besmirched his glorious outfit. His lazy blue eyes twinkled under the drooping lids and he stared at Sir Andrew through his looking glass with a slight frown.

"Now now my good fellow, don't just gape at me like that. Help me find my way, will you?"

"Y-yes sir," Sir Andrew managed to stammer and moved closer to his friend.

"Zounds, Ffoulkes, what the devil are you doing here?" Sir Percy whispered after chancing a quick look around. "And dressed as a lacquey too! Begad man! Who in the world forced you into that getup? And I thought I ordered you all to stay in England. You are mighty brave, sir, to defy me. I say, if this continues I shall have a mutiny on my hands!"

"Percy," Sir Andrew said seriously in a low whisper, "I pray you will forgive my hastiness but there is no time for a full explanation now. You know I'd follow you to the end without question but in this instance my conscience would allow me to bear disobedience rather then the knowledge that I let Lady Blakeney come by herself. She would not hear of being left behind so I did the only thing I could." Sir Andrew searched his companion's face for a reaction. Percy had blanched instantly upon the mention of his wife's name. His heartbeat quickened and he clenched his hands to keep them from shaking.

"Marguerite? She's here?" Sir Andrew nodded, noting the slight quiver in his leader's voice.

"And she knows about you. I know not how. She said that she had to warn you about Monsieur Chauvelin. That he knows about your being here and has followed you across the channel. She's at the Chat Gris in the upstairs room. Percy she's worried sick about you. She's barely slept or eaten over the journey. I'm afraid she might do something rash. She's quite unlike the calm, witty Lady Blakeney known at court…" His voice died out leaving a deafening silence. He had never seen Percy this worried before. He was always perfectly calm and collected. But at the mention of Marguerite he had become a different man. His eyes held a sort of – Sir Andrew could hardly bring himself to admit it – fear. He could almost hear the man's brain working to come up with a plan. Surely he wouldn't be impeded by something so small?

Percy stared intently at the mud surrounding their boots. A breath caught in his throat. Here? In Calais? She was in terrible danger should she be found, especially since Chauvelin now knew him as the Scarlet Pimpernel. And yet… she was worried about him. Really truly worried. A shiver of glee ran through him. The woman whom he loved so passionately in secret, whom he worshiped and adored and who had scorned him for the past year, was now here in France, braving ever danger in order to warn him.

"Perhaps she does love me… a little," he thought, though he scarcely dared to hope for such a change of heart. But warn him of what? That Chauvelin knew of his plans. Through her treachery… The words stung as if he had physically been struck. He could hide the truth and the pain from the world, but in his mind he could find no mask to save himself. Her treachery. But he knew that already. He had found out at the Lord Grenville's ball two days previous. He had prayed to hear it from Marguerite's own lips during their twilight rendezvous but had done so in vain. She had told him about St. Cyr and he had glimpsed some of her old tenderness but that revelation had taken a year. She would not be so open with him even though he wished for it with all his might.

But that was not the issue at hand. His main priority was to rescue those who were waiting for him. He had already set his plan in motion by buying the old Jew's horse and cart and paying him to stay out of sight. Now he would go back to the Chat Gris and have supper as planned. Chauvelin was in Calais and knew about the inn through the papers he had stolen from Sir Andrew and Lord Tony at the Fisherman's Rest in Dover. Perhaps the citizen would join him. He half-smiled at the thought. He would have to be quick on his feet if that happened. But he would not be caught. Not here, not now, and especially not by Chauvelin.

His plan was set and Sir Andrew could see the determination in his eyes. "Alright Ffoulkes, here's what I want you to do. There is a highway near here that branches off of the St. Martin road. It is not very well known and will be the least likely to be patrolled by Chauvelin's soldiers. It is a very long and circuitous route that will take you past Miquelon then back towards the Pére Blanchard's hut, which is our meeting place. You should arrive after everything has played out. You remember the road?"

"Yes Percy. I shall meet you again shortly then. Godspeed my friend."

"And you," Percy said as he shook the young man's hand firmly. Then without another word Sir Andrew slipped down the alley and disappeared in the gloom. Percy turned himself in the direction of the Chat Gris and began walking nonchalantly as if on his way to his royal highness' garden party and not on some muddy road in the bloodthirsty land of revolutionary France.

There were no guards in sight and there appeared to be none posted about the inn either. "Well I might as well let Monsieur Chauvelin know that I am coming," he thought merrily. "It'd be bad form to walk in unannounced."

And indeed Chauvelin was waiting impatiently for the arrival of his enemy. The innkeeper had also told him of Blakeney's expected return. Chauvelin rubbed his long hands together in anticipation of the capture of the cunning fox. Blakeney would not elude him this time.

Then all at once there came through the bleak night a sound which put Chauvelin instantly on the alert. Clapping his hat on his head he anxiously waited for the sound to get closer, for he knew who the owner was. In the attic, Marguerite also recognized the sound. It turned her very blood cold with unspeakable terror. It was the sound of a cheerful voice vigorously singing, "God save the King!"