IWSC competition - round 7
Beauxbatons 3rd year
Theme – Secrecy era 1692-1880
Prompts – Burgundy (colour) [main], thunderstorm, historical artefact (guillotine)
Word count 2436
Author's Notes:
"Scarlet pimpernel" is the English translation of the French word "mouron". Mouron was the real-life code name of an operative working for the British Alien Office in post-Revolutionary France. Historians now believe that the agent who used the soubriquet Mouron may have been Louis Bayard, and that Baroness Orczy created her fictional character of Sir Percy Blakeney based on Bayard. A former French artillery officer of the upper middle classes, Bayard served anyone who could pay his price, but always for the Royalist cause. He was accompanied by three look-alike brothers/friends and a woman known only as L'Incomparable ("The Incomparable"). The mystery surrounding his miraculous rescues of French aristocrats from under the very shadow of the guillotine makes profound sense if he was, in fact, a wizard, and the even greater mystery surrounding his female colleague can equally well be explained if she were a high-born aristocrat.
Although some elements of this story may be familiar to readers of The Scarlet Pimpernel, I have used nothing that was not attested by historical records as being in Parisian conversation at the time. I have, however, taken the liberty of using the newer term "guillotine", although at the time of its introduction it was called the louisette. Guillotin hated the use of his name in association with it, but the newer term is far more familiar to modern readers than the one which he gave it.
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Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel's house, built in 1407, still stands at the address used in this story. It is now a restaurant.
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Other French terms used in the story:
Lion d'Or – Golden Lion
Les Non-Magiques – non-magical folk, as used by Grindelwald in Fantastic Beasts: Crimes of Grindelwald
Bourgogne – Burgundy; a duchy under the Capet dynasty, and the centre of courtly behaviour in the 14th Century. It was mostly the possession of the eldest son of the reigning French monarch, and was absorbed into the monarchy after the death of Charles the Bold in 1482.
Monsieur – Mr (abbreviation M.)
Madame – Mrs (abbreviation Mme)
rue de – street of; "rue de X" = "X Street"
La Déclaration des droits de l'Homme et du citoyen – The Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, an early assertion of human rights, adopted by France on August 26th 1792.
bascule – the part of the guillotine which the condemned person's body was laid on and strapped to
lunette – the part of the guillotine on which the neck rests
cochon – pig
Vive la Révolution! – Long live the Revolution!
égalité – equality
regardez – look
tonitrua fulmino – not French, but an incantation to bring a storm; based on the Latin words for thunder and lightning.
In the Shadows
Prologue – Paris, 1789
Mouron, L'Incomparable and their co-conspirators sat in a corner of the Lion d'Or, their heads close together and their voices low. They were in a Non-Magique hostelry and it was just on a century since the first signing of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. There remained another three years until the centenary of the widespread international acceptance of the Statute, but these times were dangerous for any aristocrats, let alone magical ones.
That day, news had come of the acceptance of Guillotin's law for execution "by means of a machine", in an attempt to establish equality among all citizens, even in execution. But Mouron and his band knew that it would be the aristocrats who would most frequently fall victim to the blade. They saw a lucrative opportunity ahead, using their aristocratic connections and magical abilities to help French nobles escape the guillotine.
After some heated discussion, Mouron spoke with finality. "It is agreed, then. I shall set sail for London tomorrow, and seek a secret audience with the Prince as soon as may be. In view of King George's recent indisposition, it would be well to consolidate our ties with his son, who may shortly be called upon to become permanent Regent. He lacks seriousness, but his profligacy may be in our favour when it comes to saving aristocrats. England will pay much to avoid the Revolution spreading across the Channel."
L'Incomparable, wrapped in a burgundy cloak which showed traces of ermine trim having been removed from it, broke her thoughtful silence. "We must determine a code word."
Mouron looked at his ally. "In truth we must. My friend, what better code word can we have but the sign of your rank and your Bourgogne heritage? Let 'burgundy' be our code word, and we shall always seek to prevent the spilling of Burgundian blood."
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Paris – September, 1792
A cloaked figure hurried furtively up the rue de Montmorency. At the gate of a comfortable stone house nearly three hundred years old she glanced over her shoulder, but no-one appeared to be paying any attention to her.
The rich burgundy curtains in the windows of number fifty-one looked innocuous to passers-by, but for L'Incomparable they were a message that this was a safe house. She knocked on the heavy oak door.
After a few minutes it was opened by an elderly man whose frailty gave her a moment's pause. She had expected someone more…vibrant, alive. This man looked as if a gust of wind might blow him to the ground. But she had to trust her information.
"Monsieur Flamel?" she enquired. "I was told to seek the house with burgundy curtains."
He smiled benignly at her. "I am Nicolas Flamel. Many know me by my burgundy."
He opened the door wider and gestured her inside. The door scraped a little on the flagstones as he closed it behind her. As she followed him along the narrow passage, the lamps on the walls flickered in the draught.
He led her into the kitchen, where a warm fire burned in the range. An elderly woman, in appearance as fragile as her husband, looked up from her sewing and surveyed the newcomer with serene eyes.
"Perenelle, my dear, this lady is a burgundy guest," explained M. Flamel.
"You are very welcome here, my child," said Mme Flamel. Her perceptive gaze noted the signs of agitation in the beautiful young woman before her, and she added, "Fear not, child; you are safe here. Nicolas has encircled the house with magical protection."
L'Incomparable relaxed a little. Somehow she found it easy to trust these two, despite their apparent delicacy and the dangers that menaced her daily.
"I am a Non-Magique," she confessed. "I do not understand these things, although Mouron has tried to show me."
"Why, then, has he trusted you with this?" queried M. Flamel, a little suspiciously.
She hesitated. "I – I bring other gifts to our cause," she said reluctantly.
Mme Flamel nodded. "Aristocratic blood, no doubt? Perhaps even – royal blood?"
L'Incomparable started up in alarm. "How did you know?"
"Oh, my child, it is in your face, and in your carriage. I remember Charles the Bold, and you have a look of him. You are a true Burgundian."
"You remember – ?"
Mme Flamel laughed gently. "I have startled you; I am sorry. I forgot you were Non-Magique. But I will tell the story briefly, that you may be reassured. Nicolas was, in his youth, an alchemist. He discovered the Philosopher's Stone, which confers immortality when taken as a potion. We decided to live on together for as long as we enjoyed life, and we continue to do so. Nicolas is now four hundred and sixty-six years old, and I am four hundred and fifty-nine."
L'Incomparable shook her head in incomprehension, even while her mind registered that this astonishing story explained the pair's frailty. Then the clock striking reminded her that time was passing, and she recollected her mission.
"I have come," she said, changing the subject abruptly, "to seek your assistance. Tomorrow morning an aristocrat is to be executed, and Mouron and I are planning to save him. But we need the assistance of someone to stand nearby and bring a thunderstorm at the right moment. Mouron said that you have offered your help to him in the past. Will you aid us in this?"
Perenelle looked at her husband. "It is for you to say, Nicolas. I fear I am apt to be too distressed by such sights."
Nicolas Flamel nodded at her. "It is true, my dear. And I confess I should not wish you to be subject to the press of the crowd at such an event, either. They frequently become unruly in their excitement." He turned to the girl. "I will gladly help you, my dear."
L'Incomparable gasped with relief. "Oh, thank you," she said fervently. "You do not know…you have no idea – "
Perenelle looked at her keenly. "He is – a relation of yours?" she enquired gently.
The girl's eyes filled with tears. "M-my brother," she said brokenly.
"We would willingly seek to save anyone unjustly condemned," Nicolas assured her, "but we shall certainly do our best for one who means so much to you."
"I am truly grateful," she whispered, "but – why do you care?"
Nicolas Flamel looked at her. "In their antagonism toward the unjust régime of the past," he said seriously, "the people fail to see that they, too, are being unjust toward their former oppressors. They have already forgotten that La Déclaration des droits de l'Homme et du citoyen, adopted only a few short weeks ago, forbids arbitrary distinctions on the basis of thought, opinion or social circumstances. We magical folk have suffered such prejudice in the past, too, and have, for the last century, agreed that maintaining our secrecy is essential to our preservation. But we would greatly prefer to see all people free to live as they wish, without fear or condemnation for being different."
At this point, Perenelle arose. "Come, child, you must rest. We will send an owl to Mouron, to tell him you are safe with us."
L'Incomparable assented. She had been wondering how best to send word to her colleague that the plan was to proceed, and that she would be waiting for him as they had arranged. She wrote a brief note to him, sealed it with burgundy wax, and gave it to Nicolas.
~ o ~ o ~
When she awoke the following morning, the streets were already astir with the rumble of excitement characteristic of an execution day. She shuddered as she thought of her brother in prison, and hoped that Mouron had been able to make the arrangements he had promised.
One of their band owned a tumbrel which was often ordered to carry aristocrats to the guillotine, and their plan depended on this. Mouron was to drive the tumbrel and change places with her brother on the way to the guillotine. Thus, when they arrived at the place of execution, it would be Mouron who laid his head in the lunette, and her brother who drove the cart away. The signal that the switch had been successfully carried out would be a burgundy neckerchief on the tumbrel's driver. As well as being a signal, the neckerchief would also serve to conceal her brother's delicate white skin, which was far from being that of a coarse peasant.
She and M. Flamel made their way to the Place de la Révolution in good time. The crowd was large, for executions of those with royal blood were considered fine sights. Here and there in the crowd, L'Incomparable caught glimpses of burgundy – a beret, a cravat, a blouson – which assured her that the members of their band were in their appointed positions, ready to act as might be required, and especially to cause any diversion necessary.
The clatter of the tumbrel's wheels over the cobbles fell on her ears, and she gripped Nicolas's arm anxiously. He patted her hand and murmured, "Courage, my child."
As the crowd fell back unwillingly to allow the passage of the tumbrel, L'Incomparable gasped with relief to see the burgundy neckerchief around the neck of its driver. Thus far, then, Mouron's plan had succeeded. It remained to be seen if they could carry out the rest of it equally well.
As the prisoner was dragged out of the tumbrel and pushed roughly toward the steps of the guillotine the excitement of the crowd grew, and Nicolas nudged her. "Shout, my child – we must not appear unusually silent."
And so, with the rest, she and Nicolas cried, "Cochon!" and "Vive la Révolution!" and "Égalité!" until their throats were sore.
L'Incomparable's attention was divided between Mouron on the guillotine's platform, and the driver of the tumbrel, who had, by now, eased the cart out of the press of people close to the scaffold and was waiting at the edge of the crowd.
Mouron's arms had been tied and his body strapped to the bascule. His head was in place on the lunette, and she realised the moment was at hand. She turned to Nicolas and saw he was ready.
"Regardez!" he cried loudly to those around them and pointed to the sky. But only she heard him add "Tonitrua fulmino," for the glaring flash of lightning and its accompanying clap of thunder provoked screams among the crowd, and the torrent of rain which fell at the same instant caused everyone to cover their heads with their arms in a vain attempt to shield themselves from the downpour.
The darkened sky and heavy rain made the scene gloomy, but it was only a few minutes before it cleared enough to see a short distance. At that moment, an astounded cry rang out from the scaffold.
"He is gone! The prisoner has disappeared!"
It was true. The bascule was empty and its still-fastened straps hung loose. The crowd gasped. The executioner was looking wildly around him, but all he saw were the frightened faces of the crowd looking up at him.
A whisper ran through the crowd. "Mouron!" "It was Mouron!" "But how – ?"
Then one frightened woman screamed, "He is the Devil! It was the Devil himself, and he returned to Hell in the storm!"
It only took that to make the crowd panic. They began pushing and shoving each other in their attempts to flee from the sight which held such terrifying implications. Nicolas grasped L'Incomparable by the arm.
"We must leave here quickly. Will you trust me?"
"But – where is Charles?" She looked frantically at where the tumbrel had been.
Nicolas pointed far down the road. "There, see? He has whipped up the horse and fled. Doubtless Mouron is with him." His voice became insistent. "Child, we must leave. Will you trust me?"
She nodded, although she did not understand why he was asking. His hand grasped her arm even more tightly, and then the scene disappeared as she was swept into a whirl of sensation that pressed her from all sides, making it nearly impossible to breathe. She felt as if she was being squeezed through a hollow pipe, and she gasped with relief when the sensation eased and the whirl slowed down.
As she felt solid ground under her feet again, she looked around her and blinked with amazement. They were standing on the doorstep of the Flamels' house.
"How did we get here?" she cried, astounded.
"It is called Disapparition," said Nicolas, smiling at her bewilderment. "Mouron doubtless did the same to escape from the guillotine. I think we shall find him and Charles here waiting for us."
L'Incomparable followed him eagerly into the house and discovered he was right. As they entered the kitchen, Charles, still clad in his filthy peasant's clothes and the burgundy neckerchief, rose to embrace her.
"Sister, I am forever in your debt," he said feelingly, as he looked down at her. "You have truly shown the bravery of the Burgundians, and I owe my life to that and to the help of our good friends here. Now you must be brave again, for it is not safe for me to remain in France. I will be leaving for England in a few minutes, and we must bear another parting."
L'Incomparable looked down and bit her lips. She had known that Charles would have to flee the country, but had not expected it so soon. Then she took a deep breath, flung her head back courageously and forced a smile.
"I shall miss you, Charles. But I will keep fighting to save others, and with every one I shall think of you. And maybe one day it will be safe for you to return."
Mouron, who had been standing to one side, spoke warningly. "The Portkey is almost ready, Charles."
Charles embraced his sister, then clasped hands with Nicolas and Perenelle as he spoke a few words of gratitude to them. A battered teapot stood on the table, and Mouron motioned Charles to hold it. He looked at the others.
"I will escort Charles to safety and then return. We have done well today, and France is the better for our efforts."
He grasped the spout of the teapot, and a second or two later the pair disappeared. Nicolas, Perenelle and L'Incomparable were left looking at each other, knowing that what Mouron had said was no less than the truth. Justice had been served, the innocent had been protected, and one could always hope that one day such things would not need to be done in secrecy.