Disclaimer: I don't own the story, characters or concepts of Les Misérables or The Scarlet Pimpernel. They instead belong to the talented people who gave them birth. I am simply taking them and using them for my own purposes. Though it is beyond my skill with words to bring these two stories together entirely intact, I am attempting not to harm either any more than I must. However, if I do anything unforgiveable to character or plot, please let me know. This is based on the musical versions of both stories, but with references to Victor Hugo's novel. Oh yes, and each chapter is based on the song from the Scarlet Pimpernel musical of the same title, which I will type at the start of each chapter.
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The Pimpernel of the Revolution
Chapter One – Madame Guillotine
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I know the gutter and I know the stink of the street.
Kicked like a dog, I have spat out the bile of defeat.
All you beauties who towered above me, you who gave me the smack of your rod,
Now I give you the gutter, I give you the judgement of God!
Vengeance victorious! These are the glorious days!
Women of Paris, come gather your bloody bouquets.
Now gaze on our goddess of justice with her shimmering, glimmering blade.
As she kisses these traitors, she sings them a last serenade!"
Sing! Swing! Savour the sting as she severs you – Madame Guillotine!
Slice! Come, paradise! You'll be smitten with Madame Guillotine!
The word may be ugly, but each man must do what he must.
Give in pretty dear – in a year you will be pretty dust.
Now come let our lady possess you in her breath-taking, hair-razing bed.
She will tingle your spine as she captures your heart and your head!
Sing! Swing! Savour the sting as she severs you – Madame Guillotine!
Slice! Come, paradise! Or Delilah will shave you razor clean!
God, when did man lose his reason? Save us, my God, if you're there!
God, can you not feel the terror like a fire In the air?!
Flash! Slash! Glisten and gash! She will ravish you! Madame Guillotine!
Split! Madame just bit! Give her more to bite! She's a hungry queen!
Sing! Savour the sting as she severs you – Madame Guillotine!
Slice! Come, paradise! Hail, Her Majesty – Madame Guillotine!
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"Cosette, my child, why have you abandoned me?" he pleaded, a tear sliding down his weathered cheek. He was standing in the doorway of the now-empty room in Rue Plumet. It was only a week now since she had taken off with that boy Marius. She, the one love and joy remaining in his life, had left him with nothing left to hope for.
As he stood there, the memories of his happiness with Cosette were furtively replaced by thoughts of the many others who had betrayed him throughout his life. His sister, using him and driving him to his fall; Maubert Isabeau, the baker, who had turned him into the police when he had broken the law in an attempt to gain some small morsel for himself and those he supported; every woman who had shuddered away from him; ever man who had scowled at him; every child who had pursued him as he passed through any village, chanting in the bold manner of children, but fleeing when he spun around to face them. He was surrounded by all these faces. He was surrounded by society.
The mocking cries of the children were taken up by all those standing around them until they had become a rallying cry of frenzied hatred. Suddenly he was no longer standing before that desolate room, but in the midst of a bustling crowd, gathered before a scaffold crowned by a glistening blade.
Arrayed before the scaffold were men whose faces were all too familiar to him. He couldn't have named any one of them, but he knew who they were. They were the men with whom he had shared those nineteen cursed years. They were the men who served as a target for all of society's rage. They, in all their diversity, shared his face, for they and he were the same. They were the fallen.
He watched silently as they dragged the first of the men onto the scaffold, not struggling to break free, but crying out defiantly to anyone who'd listen in a last valiant effort to rally Paris to his side. As his head was shoved beneath the blade, he gave one last cry.
"You may have my head, but the Lord God will have your souls!"
Then, as the blade had sliced cleanly through his spine, severing his head as a child does daffodils in the spring, Cosette had given a faint cry…
Drawn back to the present by the memory of her dismay, Valjean shuddered and crushed the already crumpled paper in his hand. He looked at it bitterly.
"M. Valjean," it began. How respectful they could be when in need!
"I am sure you are of the many crimes which blacken your name, and of their consequences. I speak not only of your disregard of parole, but also of your other crimes, culminating in the death of one of our officers, Inspector Javert. Though it was not your hand which threw him from that bridge, you are held responsible for it nonetheless, as you are for all your other crimes, whether committed under the name of Valjean, Fauchlevent, or Madeleine. And of course, knowing all this, you must also be aware of the severe penalties which hang above your head, and which I could bring into motion at any time. However, I withhold my hand. Instead, I believe that a man of your obvious cunning and resourcefulness could be of assistance to me in my current undertaking.
"Know that I seek the Scarlet Pimpernel, that cursed pretender who aids the revolutionary scum. If you are successful in bringing me any information regarding his identity or whereabouts, you will be allowed to live the rest of your life as a free man. However, if you choose to turn down my generous offer, I shall hunt you down. I now have undeniable proof of your most serious crimes, and enough information about the others to ensure your condemnation. You have slipped away from us before, but it shall not happen again.
"Here is your choice. I expect to hear from you soon.
"Kind regards,
"Inspector C. Ferblanc"
Valjean looked at the letter scornfully. This Ferblanc was so sure of himself, so cocky. Well, he would play this game, but not for his freedom. What further use would freedom be to him? Better to be captured and die sooner. No, he would do this for revenge. Revenge against those republicans who had stolen the heart of his child. Perhaps this wouldn't bring Cosette back to his side, but at least he would now have a purpose. Perhaps Javert hadn't been so wrong after all.
It was time to start yet another life. The life of a wolf.
He walked over to the near-bare writing desk, his head now raised higher, and picked up the pen.
"Dear Inspector…,"