Author's Note: I really wish I had more of an idea of where this story is going, but alas... I don't. *hides* So please! Don't except awesome plots or anything like that. *sweatdrop* I'm making it up as a I go. (I know, I know. Yikes.)

I scribbled this chapter out from Chauvelin's perspective, which was interesting, but not nearly as humorous as previous chapters. I found I didn't want to write the conversation between Chauvelin and his friends - good Lord, it would have gone on for pages, been incredibly boring, disturbing, and I would have struggled desperately to get it written. Besides... Some things are best left unsaid.

Disclaimer: Obviously, CLEARLY, the author's personal views do not mimic Chauvelin's.

~BD

The Invisible Savior

Chauvelin was meditating.

It wasn't quite the same as how most people meditated, but the method he used worked well for him, so there was no reason to change. And truthfully, he didn't need to do it very often, for he was almost always in control of himself. But the past week had been a bit rough, and...

Oh, hell. Who was he kidding? The past ten years had been rough. He had helped the Nazi government, because he believed their cause was right and just... because he was a student of history, Chauvelin was, and he remembered only too well how Germany had taken the brunt of the blame during the Great War – the war that was supposed to end all wars – back in 1918.

But war was not something that just magically ended; it was something that would happen continuously time and again as regimes rose and fell and someone else wanted power. Power was the only thing worth having, but once obtained, it had to be maintained, because there were always people who would want to take it away from those who possessed it.

He had always detested lowly races of humanity like the Jews and those other filthy ethnic groups that lived in the disgusting Slavic regions. To that end, he had played his role quite well: searching out the unclean for elimination, to further the Aryan race. He had not been high up with the ranks of spies and masterminds that worked on behalf of the Nazis, but he was high enough to pull weight and gifted enough in speech to oil his way out of sticky situations. He knew his advantage was rooted in his uncanny ability to charm those who would allow themselves to be charmed; to play the double role of a French patriot and of a Nazi; secretly passing along information to those who would pay him well for the knowledge he could obtain. It was a power struggle, it truly was, and playing such a game kept Chauvelin's mind sharp. He'd had to constantly look over his shoulder, for at any second the government he was helping mightn't turn on him – at the same time, the government he was pretending to help mightn't discover the truth. And yet, Chauvelin had thrived on such a game; it was sport to him.

The very, very few people who knew the truth were, to the best of his knowledge, on his side of the game – and few they were, for the more people who knew, the more likely it would be that he'd get caught. And to the best of his knowledge, only two people had discovered his secret against his wishes.

He had done well, he supposed bitterly, that only two had discovered the truth about his allegiances. The trouble was, Marguerite St. Just was a well-known celebrity, and she had taken great pains to protect herself after she realized what he really was. Reaching her in Switzerland while the war played out was fruitless; he had other duties that were more important, and she was silent out of fear that she herself would be persecuted. But now, with the war over, it was even more difficult to reach Marguerite and eliminate the potential threat she presented. The others of her profession surrounded her; or rather, Chauvelin suspected she deliberately surrounded herself with as many people as possible, to keep him at bay. But she could not play such a taxing game. Chauvelin himself knew how difficult it was, and he knew that Marguerite would eventually grow fatigued at her feeble attempts to keep him from reaching her to silence her permanently. He could wait patiently, but he didn't like the idea that she could also open her mouth at any moment during that time.

The second person to discover his secret had been someone he should have guessed, but he hadn't. It was his mistake, and he ruefully admitted it. In truth, he had thought the enigma of the Scarlet Pimpernel was too busy saving refugees to worry about the elaborate spy networks of the various governments involved in the second war.

He had been wrong. So incredibly wrong.

Anger – the very emotion he had been trying to calm through meditation – broke the surface of his mind and his hand clenched upon a scrape of paper he had been holding between his fingers. It was a filthy little scrap, discovered in his coat pocket some eight years ago in 1943, with distorted writing that merely said, One day, you will lose this game. I swear it by all that is Good and Holy. It was stamped with a curious, awkward little red flower.

That detestable tiny flower had caused a wave of fury throughout the Third Reich; men with more power than Chauvelin had been assigned to seek and destroy the Scarlet Pimpernel, that man and his league who saved the scum of society – scum that deserved death! – from the gas chambers and the S.S. and the labor camps, but they had all failed and lost their lives for it. Chauvelin's assignment to track the mysterious man down had come at the height of the war, when crossing countries and battlefields was intensely dangerous. Still, Chauvelin survived and so did the Scarlet Pimpernel. The worst blow came in late 1944, when it was rumored that Hitler himself discovered a sheaf of paper in his desk drawer bearing that little flower and listing the names of the Jews rescued in the past month. Some doubted the rumor because, heavens! Could anyone have possibly entered the Furor's private residences to deliver such a piece of paper? It was impossible, surely! But Chauvelin knew it was true – 161 names had been listed on that piece of paper, and Chauvelin's life had only been spared because the rescues had occurred in what had been Poland, and not France.

The man who had been charged with tracking the Scarlet Pimpernel in Poland, however, had been shot by firing squad on Hitler's personal orders, and his body burned and destroyed.

The trouble was, Europe was so large! Chauvelin, who prided himself on his intelligence and cunning, was truly baffled at how this small league of Englishmen could save so many lives without getting killed in the process. Whomever they were, they were not ordinary soldiers – he knew that much. They were not in the army, navy, or the air force. They were men who were above draft age – of this, Chauvelin was certain. Perhaps they had previously served and been honorably discharged at the end of their term; but they were not young boys, fresh out of school and entering the war for honor and glory. They were older, wiser. They were masters of disguises, of strategy. And try as he might he could never lay his hands on any of them, let alone their fearless leader.

He had hints, of course. Another double agent, a man named Kulmstead, had passed along some crucially important information in November 1944 – the man had joined the very League that Chauvelin was so keen to bring down, while working secretly as a spy for the Germans. He had revealed to Chauvelin the identity of the very person Chauvelin so desired to destroy, but within two days of his confession, Kulmstead had gone missing and was discovered three weeks later, shot through the head in a deserted house near the French-German border. Chauvelin had not been surprised of the death, but he also had no idea if it had been the Nazis, the Allied Powers, or if the Scarlet Pimpernel himself had eliminated the threat. But it was no matter. Chauvelin had the information he wanted.

The trouble was, he couldn't use the bloody information. Percy Blakeney, Baronet was not in England these days; Chauvelin had traveled there himself, at great personal risk, and found nothing. Acquaintances, fooled by Chauvelin's near-perfect English accent, had confessed that Sir Blakeney spent most of this time overseas, but they could not say where. Some thought he was in the Caribbean. Others insisted he was in America. Still others claimed he'd gone to India or Australia. It was not until 1946 that Chauvelin actually saw the man in person and not in a photograph or painting, and it was at Chauvelin's own trial, no less! and zut alors! Percy was a damned spectator and Marguerite was testifying against Chauvelin to save her own skin.

Yet the Americans hadn't had enough information to convict him and Chauvelin had walked free. Marguerite's expression was easy enough to read – shock, fear, panic, worry. But she also walked free; the Americans believed she had, indeed, been innocent.

Sir Percy Blakeney's expression was much more difficult to decipher, however. Chauvelin had stolen a glance at the man as he left the room, but the face was mask-like.

For some curious reason, he'd never revealed Percy Blakeney's duel identity to anyone. Oh, there had been several times that he'd actually written it down on paper, determined to mail it to the appropriate officers in the Nazi government, but he had always burned the letters after he wrote them, finding himself unable to actually forward them on. He knew secretly that if he were to divulge the information, or even reveal that he knew the identity of the man, the Nazis would no longer have use for him. They would either give him a different assignment and send highly trained assassins to find Blakeney, or else kill Chauvelin to keep the information silent. As long as he played his part well, he could continue the game, and by the end of the war, it had become so personal that Chauvelin couldn't stomach the thought of anyone else taking credit for the Scarlet Pimpernel's demise.

He exhaled through his nose and closed his eyes to the scene before him: Paris, brightly lit, dazzling in nightly color, the war behind her and a glimmering future ahead of her. His dinner guests would arrive shortly, and Chauvelin would need to be in command of his emotions. His friends were all pro-Nazis that had slunk back into society after the war, escaping trials and sentencing, pretending to have been loyal to the Allied cause all along, but secretly having never changed at all. Chauvelin wasn't certain if any of them could assist him in getting rid of Marguerite or not, but these men had connections, and one of those connections might prove useful. A talented hit man or assassin... even someone who could disguise themselves to slip into her apartments or the studios and collect information on where she would be and when.

Chauvelin turned away from the window and frowned at the small dining room. It was rarely put to use; he didn't cook much himself, and the space was normally vacant, save for the antique table, chairs, and sideboard. He had hired a catering service for the evening and the owner had allowed him to select from his employees anyone whom he wished to help serve. The waiter now hobbling about the table was hunched and graying, older than Chauvelin himself, possibly in his sixties, and deaf as a doorknob. Which was precisely why Chauvelin had selected him. The caterer had tried to persuade him to use one of the younger men, someone more able-bodied. He had only recently hired the old, deaf fellow out of sympathy, he'd explained to Chauvelin the afternoon prior. The man had apparently been too close to a shell when it went off in the Great War and he was now moving from job to job in an attempt to find a place that would suit him in his advancing age.

Chauvelin had not changed his mind, however. A deaf old man was ideal for such a dinner party as he was hosting – he wouldn't overhear anything he oughtn't, whereas one of the younger men might, and then report Chauvelin to the authorities. Chauvelin didn't feel much like dealing with such trifling matters when there were more important things to consider: Marguerite's and Blakeney's silence, for instance. He was certain, too, that his guests would not mind an old server even if he were slow, for the mere fact that the man couldn't hear their conversations. When the owner of the catering service realized Chauvelin would not choose anyone else, he had assured him that the man could see perfectly fine, and it was best to cue the courses by a gesture or nod, rather than voice command.

The door chime sounded, but the garcon did not appear to hear it. Loudly, Chauvelin said, "That will do! If you will wait by the door to the kitchen!"

He wasn't certain if the man heard him any better than he'd not heard the door chime, but the man was at least watching him, and if nothing else, he saw Chauvelin's gesture. He nodded jerkily, and in a voice hoarse and rasping from lack of use (or perhaps simply from not being able to hear himself), he muttered, "Oui, monsieur." He shuffled to the door and stood to wait, the effect marred by the arthritic hunch of his shoulders.

Chauvelin smoothed his hair back out of habit and went to the door, opening it to find four of his friends, dressed in neat suits and smiling unctuously. He returned the smile, because he would not dare allow them to see anything else within him, and ushered them into the flat, while the old servant moved to pour wine.

It was nearly midnight when the last of the guests left, laughing loudly and a bit annoyingly; rather tipsy from too much wine and after-dinner bourbon. As soon as the door closed behind the final gentleman, Chauvelin sighed heavily and resisted the urge to lean against the wood. It had been a long evening, but productive if nothing else; several of the guests had suggestions as to what could be done about Marguerite to ensure her silence on their activities during the war, and Chauvelin had made mental notes of the best of them. None were as brilliant as he'd hoped, but then again, very little would be truly brilliant – the world was watching too closely still, and Chauvelin would have to err on the side of caution regardless of anything else.

He would lure Marguerite away from the movie set, preferably by a note written in Fonteblue's handwriting, instructing her that part of the filming would take place in the Alps. One of his contacts knew someone underground who could handle the forged note; another someone who could tamper with Marguerite's car to ensure it didn't make it over the mountain. A car wreck was perhaps not the way Chauvelin would have chosen, but he was unfortunately desperate, and outright murder was too traceable. A deadly car wreck would place blame on Marguerite herself, especially if the vehicle did not actually show signs that it had been tampered with. A good mechanic was essential for that, but one of his friends knew just the mechanic for the job, he'd claimed..

Straightening up, Chauvelin returned to the dining room to find the old server slowly collecting plates and silverware, hobbling about as he did so. It took a rather long time, but Chauvelin bit his tongue and didn't complain – the man had been blissfully unaware of the conversation that had taken place, thanks to his deafness, and for that, Chauvelin didn't care if he moved slower than cold molasses. Leaving the man to his work, Chauvelin returned to his study to make a few notes for future reference.

An hour later, the table was clear and the dishes cleaned and packed away; the caterer was due to arrive the next morning at eight o'clock precisely and collect them. Chauvelin reentered the dining room to find it just as it had been before the dinner party. He reached within his dressing jacket and withdrew a tip, more generous than he normally would have given, and handed it to the old waiter.

"For your good service this evening," he said, speaking as loudly as he could without shouting. He gestured towards the door, indicating the man was free to leave.

The man, clearly surprised by such a tip, bowed as low as his rheumatism would allow, sputtering and choking his thanks. He even bowed himself out of the door, like some warped servant from olden times, and for a brief moment Chauvelin wondered how on earth the man would get home. The thought disappeared as quickly as it had come; it was not his concern what happened to the elderly man once he left, and with a snort, he closed the door with a snap and put the waiter out of his mind.

He had more important things to mull over.

The old waiter slowly descended the stairs, one foot at a time, until he finally reached the ground floor. The night was crisp and chilly; spring was coming but not quite there yet, and it was obvious that the cold weather was taking its toll on his bones and joints as he shuffled down the pavement to the next cross street. He turned up this road, silent and empty this time of evening, and turned down an alley. Another alley over, he glanced up and saw a car – it was not running and the headlights were off, but there was a man sitting within it, lazily smoking a cigarette. The tiny red glow flickered as he inhaled, and then draped his arm outside his open window, slowly exhaling the smoke into the chilly night air.

When the man in the car saw the old waiter approaching, he quickly leaned across the front seat and unlocked the passenger door. And the old man, who had been hunched over all evening, suddenly straightened up, his shoulders becoming broad and tall, his back lengthening, and he stretched mightily to a height of six-two and opened the door.

The driver took another drag off the cig and mused, "You'll be sore for a week, you know. You've been walking that way since six this evening."

The waiter chuckled at this, and shucked off his tails, waistcoat, and cummerbund. "A small price to pay, I'm afraid!" he said, as he walked around to the rear of the car, opened the trunk, and tossed the articles of clothing within. He extracted a much thicker coat from inside the trunk and shrugged into it, then pressed the trunk closed without making hardly any noise, and hurried back to the car and slipped into the passenger seat.

The driver offered him a cigarette case and a lighter; the waiter took it and lit up. Only after he had taken a long drag and exhaled did he say, "Well. Let's get out of here, shall we, Tony?"

Tony was already rolling up his window. "Fine by me. Not so much as the first pretty lass to walk by this way in four hours. Been as dreary as you could imagine, sitting here, waiting on you to walk out of the lion's den, Perce."

"It wasn't quite that bad," Percy said lightly, taking another drag.

"Next you'll be saying their roar is worse than their bite," Tony mused, turning the key in the ignition. "Andy is right about you, you know. You're always blathering some sort of nonsense."

Percy laughed. "Better than listening to it, wouldn't you agree?"

"Not if I'm the one having to listen!"

"Well, I'm afraid when we arrive at the meeting, there will be less nonsense to blather on about, and some serious issues to discuss." Percy sighed and leaned back in the seat. "Chauvelin is a real piece of work, I'm afraid, and he has some nasty business planned for our fair actress."

Tony's relaxed expression changed to one of annoyance. "Would be easier, you know, if she actually liked you."

But his leader only shrugged, took another drag, and murmured, "Like has nothing to do with it. Her life is in danger. And I cannot overlook that, regardless of what she thinks of me."

Only one who had been around him a long time would have noticed the sadness in his eyes as he said it; Tony, who had known him since boyhood, did.

But out of respect for his leader and sheer Britishness, he said nothing; instead, he put the car in gear, pulled smoothly and quietly out of the alley, and left Percy Blakeney to his thoughts.