Author's Note: I had already written half of this chapter before I posted the first chapter. Unfortunately, there is no chapter 3 yet. I have no idea if it will get written or not, and my apologies for the ambiguity!

~BD


The Invisible Savior


"You're infatuated."

"No one would ever guess he hasn't seen the first one of her films, what with the way he stares at her whenever they're in the same room!"

"I don't trust her."

"Nor do I."

"She'll figure it out, you know."

"It hasn't been long enough since the end of the war, Blakeney."

"Exactly. What if she reunites with some of her old friends? You know, the ones with pro-Germanic ties?"

"You shouldn't disregard Glynde's information, either. He's not in British Intelligence for nothing."

"And a number of the people she associated with prior to the war haven't been caught yet!"

There was a long pause before the man sitting across from the other two finally spoke, though it was far too lightly for their satisfaction. "Everyone has skeletons in the closet, as it were," he drawled.

"She sent three Jewish families and one French family to Drancy, Blakeney. I'm not certain that's the best woman to play the female lead in this ridiculous movie script you've written. The one you're making me take credit for." There was a pause, then, "I can't go through with this. I won't take credit for your brilliance and I'm not going to –!"

Blakeney laughed at this outburst. "Ah, but you took an oath, Hastings, and you most certainly can't back out of it now! Convenient, eh? Demmed convenient, I'd say. Oaths, that is."

"Drancy, Percy," Ffoulkes reminded him darkly. "Four families –!"

"A mistake. I keep trying to tell you that. She didn't know what she was doing. Ask Dewhurst and Dennys. They were at the trial, too. She was tricked by –"

"It appeared she was tricked, damn it! And regardless of whether she was tricked or not, he's not been caught yet! Another convenience, as it were!"

Percy shrugged. "I'm keeping an eye on that, I assure you. In the meantime, you two are going to have a beautiful brunch guest in approximately fifteen minutes, and I would advise you both to be on your best behavior, regardless of anything else."

"We're not schoolboy prigs, Perce!" Hastings snapped. "We know how to act, damn it all, even if we don't trust her!"

"That's good to know. But I'm still going to demand your word. Both of you." He narrowed his eyes at them.

Hastings and Ffoulkes glanced at each other impatiently and sighed, before they finally nodded reluctantly at their chief.

"I'll be nearby if you absolutely need me. But if at all possible I'd rather her not know I'm around – she despises me." His eyes twinkled in the morning sunlight, as though he found the fact that Marguerite St. Just loathed him to be highly entertaining.

"All the more reason to move on," Hastings suggested pointedly.

"All the more reason to accept the challenge," Blakeney replied cheerfully, and he rose from the wrought iron chair and stretched his long limbs.

Then, as lazily as he seemed to do everything else, he strolled across the small alley and up ten feet, before taking a seat at a vacant café table beneath a shady lilac tree. Within seconds, a young waiter had approached him and taken his order – and had someone asked the waiter what nationality the tall, blonde man was, the waiter would have instantly replied French, of course!

Marguerite walked directly by him without even noticing him, for he blended in so well with the small scattering of people outside this alley café, and she went directly to Hastings' and Ffoulkes' table. Both gentlemen rose and welcomed her: Ffoulkes pulled her seat out while Hastings flagged the waiter.

Ten feet away, Sir Percy Blakeney smiled into his coffee and watched out of the corner of his eyes, hidden behind aviator sunglasses, as she laughed and chatted with the two Englishmen – two members of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, even! – without any idea of whom they really were. It was really quite entertaining.


Four months later, he still found everything quite entertaining, much to his men's annoyance – in particular Ffoulkes, who saw him more than anyone else.

Marguerite had not expected him to appear at any of the filming sessions, for example. He couldn't possibly show up at all of them, for it would look too suspicious, but he came to the filming sporadically and she always looked highly irritated at his presence. He got a kick out of it, out of pressing her buttons, because they were so bloody easy to press. Just when it seemed he had made progress with her – just when he thought she was going to laugh at one of his silly jokes or weird comments – she would rearrange her expression and scowl at him, and they'd be right back at square one. His men thought he was delusional for pursuing a woman who clearly had no interest in him, but it was such a challenge, and Percy Blakeney hadn't had a challenge quite so exciting since the end of the war.

And then there was poor Andrew, who was clearly about to go 'round the twist any day now. Playing Marguerite's opposite with Percy hanging about the filming studios was driving him insane. The whole scheme for Andrew to play Percy in the first place had only been concocted because Andrew had made the comment that he wanted to meet the actress Suzanne Tourney, who was one of Marguerite's closest friends, and Percy had decided that if they wrote a movie script about the Pimpernel's exploits and Andrew played the lead, he would be in a better position to meet and woo Suzanne, and also throw Percy right into Marguerite's path. At least the first part had come about even if nothing else had – Suzanne had taken an immediate liking to Andrew, and Marguerite herself had encouraged the relationship between her opposite and her dearest friend.

But for Andrew, the real trouble was the kissing scene between him and Marguerite. Andrew was, by nature, a man disgusted with the idea of cheating on anyone, and he felt that kissing Marguerite was wrong to both Suzanne and Percy.

"I just can't do it, Perce!" he'd argued one evening.

Percy had ignored him. "You've got to, man, whether you want to or not – it wouldn't capture people's interests if the hero didn't kiss the heroine! Demmed boring sort of film it'd be otherwise, you know."

"It feels wrong!"

"Well, good. That makes me feel marginally better."

"Oh God, there you go talking nonsense again! Can't anyone have a normal conversation with you?"

Percy had merely laughed.

Marguerite, on the other hand, seemed completely unfazed at the idea of kissing Andrew; he supposed it was because she was an actress and she kissed men all the time, regardless of their marital status.

That was what grated Percy's nerves: Marguerite's blasé reaction to the whole thing.

He had told himself that he wasn't going to go to the studio the day the kissing scene was planned to be shot, but he found himself there anyways – in disguise, of course, because he didn't want Marguerite to notice him. Dressed as a janitor sweeping the set clean, he watched as the scene was filmed six times in succession; each time, the director was unsatisfied with Andrew's lack of passion.

In fact, the director finally called a halt and stormed onto the set, gesturing wildly and going on about how Andrew was doing it "all wrong", and launching into a long-winded explanation about the sensuality of the art of kissing, how the French always knew how to appreciate and excel at love, how the British had always been such cold fish, and how Andrew would have to overcome his upbringing to properly film the scene.

Percy was rather amused at his mate's bright red face – Andrew would have to splash some cold water on his cheeks before he could resume filming, otherwise he would look like a drunk Scarlet Pimpernel. He nearly laughed aloud at the thought, but reconsidered, for it would only draw attention to himself and he couldn't risk being recognized while he was in disguise.

Marguerite herself was watching Andrew with an amused expression while the director continued to expound further upon the art of kissing, and Percy decided it would be best, too, if he stopped staring at her from the side wing and took a moment to splash cold water on his face, lest he start daydreaming.

He turned his back on the scene before him and began to make his way through the studio, avoiding props and sets and machinery; he was nearly to the loo when he overheard a voice – a male voice, oily, low, and smooth – telling someone (in French) to wait outside on the back lot for him, that he would not be long. He merely needed a crumb of St. Just's time.

Percy halted as a surge of anxiety bubbled within his stomach at the sound of that voice, but he remained calm. Frowning, he slid behind a large plank of wood that was propped against the side of the studio, disappearing from sight. The man in question was standing in shadow near the rear door that led to the back alley behind the studio. He was dressed in black, and as soon as the door closed behind him, he was nearly impossible to make out in the dimly lit backstage area.

The director called for a break at that moment, and there was sudden movement from the stage as actors, cameramen, costumers, make-up artists, and others left their stations to run to the loo or grab a bite to eat. Marguerite herself came around backstage, holding Andrew's arm and laughing good-naturedly.

"Ah, you should not worry! Once you relax a bit, it will come naturally, I promise. I know what it really is, even though Fontbleu does not – you are head over heels for darling Suzanne, and I know you don't wish to hurt her. Believe me, Andrew – she understands how the business works. I am not falling in love with you, I assure you, and she knows that as well! It is just part of the act for the script."

"I know... but..."

"Non, do not fret over it. You will do just fine when we return to the set. Go, get some water to cool off a bit." Marguerite gave him a pretty smile and Andrew returned it wanly before heading to loo, leaving his pretty opposite standing by herself.

"Mademoiselle St. Just."

He saw the way she tensed at the voice – the way her body stiffened and her mouth tightened, the way her eyes flashed with slight fear before she turned to find the source. And Percy melted further into the shadows, lest she or the speaker notice him.

"I see you are well into production. Fontbleu must be elated to have such a masterpiece of a script and such a well-known actress playing his lead. I wager it will win the award for Best Picture!"

"What is it you want?" She asked bluntly, maintaining her composure and standing straight and tall with her chin lifted. She did, however, flinch just slightly when the man stepped from the shadows to greet her.

"I was merely stopping by to visit an old acquaintance..."

"Hardly," she retorted. "For we are not acquaintances, and you do not merely drop in on anyone for blasé conversation, Chauvelin."

"I am wounded, dear Marguerite. We were once friends. Has that changed, and I was not aware of it?"

"It changed a long time ago," was the curt response. "And you should have been very aware of it. What do you want?"

"Only your assistance, mademoiselle. I am looking for the Scarlet Pimpernel."

"The Scarlet Pimpernel? What on earth for?" She snorted, most unlike herself. "I certainly do not know him. You are wasting your time here."

"Am I? You are telling me that you are producing a film based on his... amazing exploits? And yet you do not know his identity?"

"No. I do not. The medium of film is merely fantasy, even if it is based off of a real event or person. It is hardly surprising that someone has created this particular film; in fact, I'm rather surprised someone didn't come out with it three years ago. Goodbye."

She was already moving through the props, signaling the end of this odd chance meeting, when Chauvelin mused, "Still. He caused a good deal of trouble during the war."

"Trouble? He rescued innocents that you – a traitor to your country! – and the Nazis would send to death!" she hissed, turning back towards him in anger. "He caused trouble for Hilter, perhaps. But not for the rest of the world!"

Chauvelin smiled, his thin lips curving upward. "Ah. I was acquitted, Marguerite, and so you have no basis to call me a traitor. Still..." He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, and took a long drag before adding, "There are many who would want to see him die even now, you know."

"Including you," she spat.

Percy could tell she was white to the lips; she looked ready to faint. He shifted slightly, making no noise, but there was no possible way to intervene so long as Chauvelin was so near.

"You misunderstand me," the man was saying unctuously. "I admire his daring...!"

"You admire his daring? And so you wish to locate him to tell him so, is that it?" Her eyes flashed. "You fooled me once, Chauvelin. You will not do so again."

Without another word, she turned and stormed amongst the sets and props, disappearing around a corner, and Chauvelin stood silently for thirty seconds or so, before he turned as well and headed for the backstage door. A strip of sunlight cut through the dusty interior of the rear studio before the door banged shut with an echo.

And across the dim shadows, Percy noticed a slight movement – startled, he narrowed his eyes, unaware someone else had been so close by. But then he realized; it was only Andrew opposite him on the other side of the rear door, having heard everything as well. Their gaze met, and Percy slipped away, pretending to sweep the floor.

He was rather glad Andrew had overheard everything, actually. And they would most certainly discuss the conversation later.


"So... She was fooled, then?" Andrew's brow furrowed. "Or was she pretending today?"

"She was fooled then; she was not pretending today. She fears him, as she rightly should. He is a force to be reckoned with."

"How did he manage to trick her, though?"

Percy sighed. "It was 1941. Chauvelin had no concrete proof that she knew the whereabouts of the four families in question. A friend of hers had told her – unwisely, for it was unwise to reveal such knowledge to anyone, even to a friend! – that three families were hiding in a secret room in a farmhouse about an hour outside of Paris. The friend was obtaining supplies for the French family that owned the farm, and was hoping Marguerite could assist. Which she agreed to do so if possible. It wasn't until a couple of weeks later, when she had a chance meeting with Chauvelin, that it came to light. He was playing a double agent then – pretending to be loyal to the French when, in reality, he was passing along information to the Nazi government. Marguerite, believing him to be loyal to the Allies, told him about the families in hopes that he might have them moved to a safer location."

"And instead," Andrew said darkly, "He contacted the SS and had them arrested."

"That is exactly what he did. They moved far too quickly for me to get involved. Regardless, even if I had been able to intervene, it would have been difficult to move so many refugees across the country to a safe zone in so short a time. Marguerite, horrified at what had happened, tried to contact Chauvelin, without success, and concluded that he must have been a traitor, for to her knowledge, no one else knew of the situation. And, afraid she would be accused of being a traitor, afraid that it would be her word against Chauvelin's, she relocated to Switzerland."

"And at the trial, in 1946?"

"She pled innocent."

"As did Chauvelin..."

"They were both acquitted; Chauvelin oiled his way through the proceedings with amazing agility. I would be highly surprised if the man's tongue weren't forked. He insisted he was planning to move the families himself, but that he was attacked and his secret papers were stolen, revealing the whereabouts of the families and their hiding place."

Andrew made a derisive noise. "And that was believed?"

Percy smiled grimly. "The man walks free, does he not?"

"I find it difficult to believe the Americans bought such a story when they held proceedings. They honestly didn't question why the Nazis hadn't executed him if he had indeed been working for the French?"

"It was astounding. I can only say that he is a gifted speaker; he has the ability, like Hilter did, to spellbind an audience. Only Marguerite and myself were not fooled by his performance."

"Is she in danger from him now?"

"One would think not – after all, they were both acquitted, so who would believe her at this point? But I disagree. I think she is in danger from Chauvelin. He doesn't like that she lives and secretly knows the truth. She is a liability to him, even if no one would believe her story except us. And Chauvelin is the sort of person who, er, dislikes loose ends."

"What do you think he will do?" Andrew's voice was worried.

Percy rose from his seat and crossed to the sideboard to pour another brandy. "I suspect he wants her dead, and I expect he'll make it look an accident to keep the authorities from discovering his involvement. Something like a car wreck over a cliff, or suicide by gunshot... overdose..."

"Good God...! You can't possibly be serious! That's..." Andrew trailed off suddenly, and then sighed. "It isn't that I doubt you, Perce. It's just horrible to think that he really would. What are you going to do?"

"I don't know yet. I plan to investigate him a bit further. He's having a dinner party at his apartment in Paris tomorrow evening, and I plan to be there as a waiter."

"A waiter? You'll stand out like a sore thumb! You'll be taller than anyone in the room, and –"

"Ah, but not if I'm slightly hunched and in my fifties, balding and slightly arthritic."

Andrew stammered for a moment before he found his voice again. "Oh, for God's sake, do be careful, Percy! He's searching for you, too. God knows how many people he put into concentration camps for the Nazis, but if I had to guess, you rescued a number of the ones he did! Otherwise he wouldn't have a reason to search for you! He'll be looking for disguises...!"

Percy laughed. "That, my dear fellow, is the least of my worries! I expect that Monsieur Chauvelin will be so preoccupied with his dinner guests that he won't notice the poor serving staff. And I will be as unobtrusive as a bit of dust in a corner that no one notices! You can be certain of that."

"Who else is going to this dinner party?"

"From what Glynde has discovered, several... er, like-minded friends, so to speak. No acquaintances, mind. Everyone who received an invitation knew Chauvelin during the war, and they were somehow linked. All told, about twelve people will be there."

"That's rather a very small dinner party, considering."

"Yes, so I'm hoping it will be easy enough to gather information."

"But they won't say a word around the serving staff."

Percy only smiled. "Oh ye of little faith," he murmured. "I do wish you'd trust me more, Ffoulkes. I haven't failed you yet, have I?"

Andrew sighed and shook his head. "Just be careful. We'll breathe a lot better once the war is good and behind us."

"That, my friend, is the truest statement you've made all night!" Percy laughed.