Clenching her teeth at the sudden, approaching whirlwind of Percy, Marguerite forced a hospitable smile onto her face and turned around, still holding Chauvelin's hand delicately. "Thank you, Percy, I appreciate your telling me…" she murmured. "Th-this is Monsieur Chauvelin, an old, dear friend of mine." she gave her husband a sharp look here, as if daring him to question her past. "And," she continued, glancing up to Chauvelin's scrutinizing brown eyes, "This is my husband, Sir Percival Blakeney." she told him, stepping back a little.

"But," she added, hastily, disliking the looks that were being exchanged, "Let's step out of this sun and inside, shall we?" She looked appealingly at her husband.

"Citoyen Paul Chauvelin," the tall, dark Frenchman completed, dropping Marguerite's petite hand as he bowed in a like manner--with a noticeable lack of the same sincerity--to Percy. "It is an honor to meet you in person, Sir. Your name is well-known across the Channel."

"Is it now?" Percy mused, scratching his chin. He thought of the ring in his pocket, and that alone took all he had to keep from reaching in to pat and make sure it was still there. "Well, rightfully so. You people do have good taste. Citoyen, is it? Ah, well, can't say the same for leisure activities. There should be enough to do in France to keep you people from starting a bloody war!" Feigning a yawn, Percy turned on his heel, facing back to the house. "Yes, let's off, shall we?" Rounding behind Chauvelin, a devilish grin cut Percy's face a split second and with no hesitance he reached out and slapped the other's
backside. Making no note of it, only grinning wider at the befuddled expression that paled Chauvelin's face--if it could get any moreso--Percy had the force of habit to extend his arm to his wife for her to take as they walked along, but gazing at her...he remembered...and self-consciously drew his arm back and headed off the small trio back into the house, talking inanely about one thing or another as he expected the two of them to follow.

Chauvelin hung behind, glaring after Percy with a mix of confusion and anger, and with a sputter in deep French all he could manage was: "You...left France...for that?!"

Momentarily forgetting her husband, Marguerite gazed her own at Chauvelin. "Oui, yes, apparently," she replied lightly, turning again to lead him into the house. Bowing back for a second, she added a little shyly, "I'm sorry...", as if apologizing for her husband, or maybe the way everyone was acting. Then she looked questioningly at him again. "Why did you come, Chauvelin? You must have a reason, you always do..." she asked softly, in French, putting her hands on her hips. "It wasn't just to comment on my husband, or lack thereof." Letting her face fall (Percy!), she mumbled something else in French, that if you strained to hear: "It has to be obvious that things aren't always happy..."

Chauvelin adorned his hat back into place and followed her resolutely; his posture never seemed to abandon that ramrod-straight military rigidness. "It doesn't worry me, mademoiselle," he said, acknowledging her apology with a curt nod. Being the last one in he took the liberty to close the main door and continue on after Percy, who beelined for the same den room he had just left. "The truth is, Cherie, that national affairs had brought me to England, and it so happened that I would be passing by this way and thought I might pay an old friend a visit. And yet in coming here I discovered all the more a reason to come see you." A slight smile, a chuckle from a thought only Chauvelin knew that glimmered in his dark eyes. "It would be preferable if we could discuss it alone." Chauvelin spoke the last in French as he came into the room Percy had led them to, assuming that her idiot husband knew not a word of the language. Casting a glance at the Englishman who stood now before the fireplace, examining something on the mantle, Chauvelin's expression darkened at Marguerite's next words, and with a slight turn to her he continued on in their own tongue. "That is plain to see, Madame. No one would have ever thought the cleverest woman in Europe, Madame St. Just, would have fallen into the bonds of wedlock with such a renowned fool." His eyes turned fully on her, curious and prying. "It's a pity, really...I thought you were more intelligent than that."

Percy listened though his back was turned, and contrary to popular belief he understood every word of French the two uttered. A sigh as though frustrated, and he turned with the same inane grin back to the both of them. "Oh, odd's fish, man! Do stop all that muttering in French. You speak English so wonderfully; I should think you'd hate to hide the fact. Sink me, wherever did you learn?"

"The Academie de Paris," Chauvelin answered, nodding at Marguerite with a foxy smile. "Where we first met."

"That so?" Percy chuckled. "Well, 'tis nice to get together with old friends, wot?"

"Alone? Something else..?" Marguerite started to murmur in reply, one eyebrow arched. Then she carefully clenched her hands into fists at her sides, keeping control over her temper. "Oui, maybe I'm stupid, but-he wasn't like this...I really am in love with him, who he used to be, Chauvelin." switching back to English for Percy, "Yes. It is nice to be---reunited." she replied, shortly. In quick French, so that Percy might have blinked and missed it.."National affairs? Of what kind?" Suddenly she had sneaking suspicion she knew why Chauvelin wanted to talk to her...'alone'. "Percy...er, have we got anything we can feed our guest? My guest?" she gestured toward the cold, empty teapot at the far end of the room. She asked only because, though they had servants, butlers and the like-she tended to get things herself. But her husband..? She didn't know the proper English custom. Not yet. She looked a little uncertainly at the two men in the room, before getting hesitantly to her feet.

"Love?" Chauvelin echoed in French, his face brightening as though surprised Marguerite even understood the concept of it. "Is that what it was?" A little ironic laugh, his shoulders crunched together as though to withhold a deeper, more vulgar comment. "It's a good thing, then, that you weren't in France at the time, Madame, for if you'd have heard some of the things said about your wedding as viewed by others--"

"I heard love in there somewhere!" Percy cut Chauvelin off again, bouncing around the chair he stood by, closing the distance between the three of them. "Why, Chaubertin! Is there a lady friend involved in this conversation?"

"Chauvelin, sil vous plait," the Frenchman corrected, removing his hat again to set it solemnly against his chest, his face falling in what could have been sorrow. "Oui, monsieur. Sadly, my lady friend passed some time ago." He then tossed his hat into the seat beside him, content with the half-truth. Percy reeled, a hand to his chest.

"Lud love me! Tragic things always happen to the best of men."

"Yes, they do."

The cold stares returned, as though hidden meanings detected in both mens' statements. They were sizing each other up, like two wolves preparing to fight over the choice female. When the tense silence seemed enough to shatter glass Percy broke it by whirling and with a flourish bowing to Marguerite with a ridiculous air. "Of course, Madame. I'll see what the cook has in store." Righting himself, he turned his attention back towards the hallway they had come. "Now where is that demmed woman..." He turned back with the same twirling energy he had come, and intentionally or not slammed into Chauvelin on the way. Pausing as the tall, dark Frenchman stumbled backwards into a chair with a heavy plop, Percy just cocked his brows curiously. "That tired, eh, Shoveling? Must have been a long journey." And he strode for the hallway with the confidence of a peacock, stopping in the doorway to glance back. "Anything in particular, dear?"

Grumbling, Chauvelin pushed himself back up, disguising his curses as he brushed off his clothes and turned his back to Marguerite's husband, at the same time speaking in a harsh whisper to her: "National affairs of the utmost importance, chere. You might be wise to hear me out. It concerns you, most of all."