A/N A big thank you goes to SherlockianGirl for giving me the idea to write this, but if you don't like it, well. . . I have to say I'm not much of a fan of living in the heads of my villains either. But it's a must from time to time, and Chauvelin is just so thoroughly chilling that I had to get into his head if I'm going to write any sort of story with him in it.
So enjoy it. Or not. Whatever.
Warning: Chauvelin is a sick little man with sick little thoughts. You ought to know that, but he thinks some sick little things in this story.
Chauvelin
The crowd is very anxious today. They mill, and cheer like they are really thinking of something else, and do not beg for souvenirs from off the bodies like they usually do. I know why. They are thinking of an Englishman - a very extraordinary Englishman - who has been rumored to be in league with the Devil himself.
The knife of La Madame Guillotine rattles as it is raised to readiness again. I must admit I do not like this part - it is so very bourgeois. To hush and wait eagerly as some now-unimportant personage is clamped into the National Razor, for the row of horrid old hags to pause in their knitting and lean forward with glee, for the roll of drums to be so needlessly dramatic. . . it does not excite me, for though I bear the name of "Citoyen", I still pulse with the blood of an aristocrat. I can still hold myself away from the sordid sensationalism.
This part, the execution, is not the part I enjoy, for it is the point when all life leaves a person - what matters it if this occurs when their blood dirties a basket, or if life leaves the body from a draught of poison, or even a peaceful last breath of age?
The blade of the guillotine descends upon the next small bit of prey. I look away. I do not care.
Death is not my game.
It is a person's life I wish to know, for if I can reach into the very mind of my adversary, then there is no armor he can construct that can keep me out. It is as intimate a caress as I can bestow, and you must believe me when I say I enjoy it. I can twist myself into the minds of people with all the satisfaction of a roué who visits a doxy.
It is my talent, and my life.
It is the only way I can come to know people.
The crowd is moving away from the guillotine, and making for the west barricade. Those hags will have to pass Bibot at the gate, and there is no one better than Bibot for smelling out a disguised aristo.
But it is odd. Today the crowd does not seem as eager as before. Or maybe it is a different type of eagerness. Anticipation? Yes, they are awaiting that Devil-man, that English Ghost, that Scarlet Pimpernel! They are wondering if Bibot will catch him today.
Somehow I do not think he will. English minds are the hardest to predict, for one can never tell when they will risk everything in one bold charge.
I cannot understand this English Phantom, and so I hate him, though I do not know who he is.
I will find him one day. And will break him, or die trying.
Do I scare you? That is good, mon petite, for my life is not a soft one. If I did not scare you, I would not be me.
I have very little contact with others. I can not and would not admit it to anyone, but I am very lonely. I have been since Lisette died. . . But I do not let anyone remember Lisette. She is dead, let her remain dead. Just as dead as she was on the night she gave birth to a daughter, and just as dead as the M. de Chauvelin was when they brought him the news of it. They are all dead, do not remember them.
Even Fleurette is dead to me, for I cannot be a father to her. I never knew how.
It is too late to learn.
But I know how to control people. I know how to strip their thoughts bare in front of me and wield a fillet-knife upon them. I have such paramount control over the blade of my own tongue that I am almost surprised that the leaders of our Revolution have not yet decided to cut off my head with it.
But I know too much of them, and so many of their secrets that even were I to make some mistake, they would think twice before removing me.
I have seen the nakedness of their thoughts, and I can make them ashamed.
Ah! A soldier is shouting at Bibot - the Scarlet Pimpernel has escaped again!
I am not surprised.
I am going to be the one who brings that man down, not some half drunk bourgeois with over-inflated ideas of his own importance.
I am the only one who will ever keep my eye on the unguarded areas, and I am the only one who will know how to prod the tenderest of them with just the right amount of pressure to make whoever it is plead for release, and force them to do whatever it takes to achieve the pleasure that comes from a surcease of pain.
I may not be the most powerful man in France, but I am the only man who has this much of this type of power.
I will find the Scarlet Pimpernel, and I will crush him.
I know how I will do it too.
A woman. Marguerite St. Just has married an Englishman lately. Some brainless fop I have only met once, but I know her from her salon, and from one incident with the family of St. Cyr. I know how to turn her mind to my purpose, and she is in a perfect social position. I suspect that she may already know some compatriots of my particular Englishman, and I will find some way of bringing down her guard. She will do as I say, and I will find the Englishman I want.
And crush him.
Why do I hate him so? You are right if you think it is not just because I cannot reach into his mind. It is also because he has what I have always wanted, and now I know I can never have.
He has the power to do what is right, for right's own sake.
My life turned to darkness long ago, and my power turned to defilement.
Strange that I would not now have it any other way.
Yet, it is even more strange that I should feel so strongly about it. I thought all feeling like that had left me long ago.
I shall enjoy this chase.
I shall enjoy it very much.
But somehow I know that in the end I shall feel just the same as I felt a few minutes ago, as I stood at the foot of the guillotine, and watched a young girl lose her life's blood into a basket.
I shall feel powerful.
And I will hate it.