"No, Percy, it's all right. " Their disagreement momentarily forgotten, Marguerite gave him a distracted smile before turning back to Chauvelin. All trace of affection for the man gone, she asked, in cold, formal French: "How does it concern me this time, Chauvelin? Last time.." she stopped there, letting her words hang in the air. Crossing her arms across her chest, she looked at him cautiously; "Though it might be best if you were to tell me..."
Equally cold, equally formal, Chauvelin's dark eyes narrowed on her childlike face as he replied. "Last time has no bearing on this case, mademoiselle. It involves..." He paused, noticing Percy still lingering in the doorway. With a start, as though having been caught listening, Percy flared back to the usual energy of the nincompoop.
"Ah, yes, quite right. Now where is that cook? Oh, cooooooook-ie!" On silent steps despite his long strides, Percy vanished into the deeper corridors of the mansion, his turned-away face fixed solidly with determination as he sped as quickly as he could manage. He wasn't leaving Marguerite alone with that man any longer than he had to.
A visible wave of relief swept over Chauvelin when Percy had gone, his tall, thin frame relaxing and turning back to Marguerite. Letting his dark eyes rove over her, he saw ever more as the same little actress he'd known. The same face radiating child-like innocence, no matter how much he knew better it had always appeared that way. Her bright blue eyes, glimmering with that keen intelligence and wit, her smooth pale skin, like ivory, and her petite feminine mouth that alone could master any expression. Watching her now, not a bit changed from the girl he knew in France, he wondered if her view of him had changed at all. Possibly, not entirely, was his conclusion. You can't kill feelings that intense. Blinking as though to bring him back to his senses, the Frenchman straightened with the same formal attitude, drawing a sharp breath. "Tell me, Marguerite, you do know of the Scarlet Pimpernel, don't you?"
"Everyone knows of the Scarlet Pimpernel," she replied lightly, listening to her husband's steps receding quietly down the hall. "You must know by now, Chauvelin, he's the only topic of conversation." Staring at him knowingly, she continued, "But surely you don't just want to know that. You already did, I'm sure." Eyeing him in much the way he was eyeing her, she noted that he, also, looked much the same-just more-determined, it seemed. The same stormy eyes, darkly handsome features...if it wasn't for his more-or-less obsessions with the ideals of France, they could very well have… no, best not to think about it.
"What is it, Chauvelin?"
"Oh no, chère," Chauvelin said lightly, stepping closer to her. Unclasping his hands from behind his back he took hold of her arm just above her elbow, not a tight or painful hold but enough to emphasize his words and keep her sure attention. "He is much more than conversation. We have more proof than ever now that he does exist, Marguerite." Not bothering to clarify who "we" was, he went on, his face deep and earnest in seriousness, yet alight with those passionate fires reserved for only when he spoke of the country he so loved and its affairs. "And more than that, all evidence points to someone from England who lives near the channel." He took another step closer until he was a breath's distance from her ear so that he could speak without any risk of detection. "And there is even more to support that your husband is involved, perhaps deeper than he should be." He drew back to his previous position, letting the news make its own way.
Already shaking him loose when he drew back, Marguerite let out a shrill giggle- unlike her, but she couldn't even fathom the idea. "Percy?! But-but.." she sputtered, before regaining control of herself. "My husband-you said yourself-he's not….Chauvelin!" she finally let out in anguish. "You're not serious." Finally deciding it had to be some sort of trick. "Chauvelin, I mean it. What do you want? I'm hardly in the mood for-" she pushed her hair out of her face in annoyance and finally just sputtered, at a loss for words; "Prove it, Citizen, if that's what you want me to believe!"
"One doesn't have to be a genius to be of help to the traitor," Chauvelin replied coldly, having already thoroughly thought through the entire situation. "His money would be more than enough to service the activities of the Pimpernel, his name a renowned password, and his many residences the perfect place to house the Pimpernel's men and their escapees. Trust me, Madame, it is quite fathomable." He laughed then, a hollow sound despite its genuine meaning, and turned away from her to approach the mantle where he eyed a small painted portrait of Percy and Marguerite in a golden frame. Marguerite looked ravishing in her wedding dress, and rightfully so, it was just a pity she was with the wrong man. "Prove it," he echoed, keeping his back to her. The tone of his voice was that of a snake waiting to strike, and one that had a clear shot and perfect aim. "Even you can't deny that Monsieur Blakeney is so often away from home, taking trips across the Channel to and from France. What does he do on those visits? Can you tell me that, chère? Does he ever tell you?" A cold mockery here, because above all Chauvelin knew he didn't. Even if Percy had made some excuse, that's all it was. An excuse. With Marguerite's attention caught, he planted the final seed of suspicion. "For all you know of your husband, Madame, he could not only be helping the Pimpernel destroy the efforts of France but may be harboring a mistress across the Channel, as well…" She couldn't see it, but Chauvelin's grin as he spoke was evil, mocking with vile pleasure. He was enjoying this too much.
Marguerite's expression didn't waver, but if you looked closely enough, you'd see her eyes grow hard and her jaw set. When she spoke it was very, very softly. "What is it you want, Chauvelin? You didn't come here simply to mock me." clenching her hands again into fists, she wished she hadn't sent her husband away in the first place-what was keeping him? She couldn't even bear to think of Percy across that channel by himself, let alone with a woman… "If you didn't want something," she continued, in a thoughtful, accusing tone, "you wouldn't be here."
Chauvelin scoffed lightly to himself, looking down at his waistcoat to caress the red, white, and blue sash about his waist fondly. His true colors...all that he stood for. Sighing, he answered in a much softer tone, but none the less intense. "You're right, of course, Marguerite. You always are." A long pause in which Chauvelin thought, even more fondly: 'you always were'.
"I want you, Marguerite, to help me in finding the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel so that my colleagues and I can put a stop to his meddling in affairs that aren't his." He turned back to her, for once his gaze sincere, pleading in earnest. "You're the cleverest woman in Europe, chère, and have won that title with good reason. As an actress and a woman you can persuade information from people and root out things I cannot. I came here to ask you to help your country, Madame. This isn't a personal favor I'm asking, it's for France. There's great things happening in our home, Marguerite, and we can't afford to let the interference of one man stop us now." He paused, his eyes roving her face. "You and I usually work so well together..." Stopping suddenly, he turned back, straightening the neck of his coat. "Besides, your assistance might clear your husband of some major charges...should he be convicted."
"Blackmail," Marguerite murmured, sounding amused. But all amusement faded as she snapped, "You want me to betray my husband as I betrayed the Marquis de St. Cyr for you, is that it?" eyes flashing, she ceased, her breast heaving with emotion. "If helping my country means betraying Percy, or the Scarlet Pimpernel....mon dieu, I don't know, Chauvelin, what it is you'd have me do...he already has absolute contempt for his wife." shaking her head, she finally mumbled, staring directly at the floor, "...how could I help you, anyway?" she asked, sullenly. Where was Percy? As soon as Chauvelin had gone, she would tell him everything. And, and he'd be the old Percy, and he'd know what to do, and they'd love each other again...
Content with this solution, she stubbornly pressed, "What would Percy's...charge be? What eviden-" changing her mind, she asked instead, "What could I do to-" she swallowed "-lighten whatever you were going to-to.." her voice wavered on the last words and she clamped her mouth shut. This man in front of her had almost complete control-and she hated it.
"Betray him for his own sake," Chauvelin snapped in reply, his voice rising sharply but still keeping wary of any eavesdroppers. "You can keep him from getting in any deeper than he already is. Et puis, what want have you for him? You yourself say he hates you." A pause in which he licked his dry lips, noticing his fist was clenched and forcing it to release. "You can do plenty, chère. Surely there is a room somewhere in this mansion of yours that your husband keeps locked up, yet he is constantly inside doing things you don't know, hoarding charts and letters that he doesn't let you see. What you can do is find those things he hides so secretively when is he away on one of his trips. You find them and relay to me every piece of information you come across…where he goes, who the letters are from, any indication of what he does when he is in France. Surely a woman as witty as Marguerite St. Just can pull that off under the nose of a fool." Here he laughed, mocking her worry and reveling in the fact he had her cornered. "His charge? Treason, Madame. Treason against England, for the Prince of Wales himself has questioned Sir Blakeney about these matters and was given false information. And these deeds are acts of war against France. Should your husband be so unfortunately caught in France and convicted of these charges, it's the guillotine for sure." A strange delight shone in Chauvelin's eyes as he said this, one he couldn't hide. "But you can help, Marguerite. Get me the information I need to find the Pimpernel himself and I can pull my strings to keep your husband out of harm's way. All I want is the Pimpernel. Your husband's life is of no interest to me." Little did he know he was speaking of the very same person…
Nor did he know that at that moment that very person was in his own dilemma as he listened to every word that was uttered between them. The enormous house that Percy and Marguerite resided in was one that had been built by Percy's father when he finally settled in England. Percy had grown up in this house, and knew each and every direction, entrance, and exit of the many hidden passages that wound throughout the place between the walls. After making for the kitchen and knowing he was out of sight he ducked into one such passage concealed under a tapestry, and removing his shoes he moved silently along until he knew form experience that he stood behind the thin layer of building material that separated him from the den Marguerite and that man conversed in. A tiny peephole, no larger than a coin, allowed sufficient space for him to listen carefully to their conversation, his back pressed against the lining of the narrow corridor with his eyes focused intently ahead. Fearing the worst as their words grew deeper and deeper in intensity, he clenched his eyes shut, pressing his hands in strain against the wall as though making a physical effort that would carry out his thoughts. "Don't do it, Marguerite," he whispered under his breath as one would a prayer. "Don't agree to anything…he's too close to the truth to be comfortable, yes, but don't agree to anything! Lord, give me a sign that I can trust you…" He knew well enough that had he known where the conversation was going he could have slipped back out and interrupted them, not giving his wife the chance to answer, but in order to do so he would have to make his way back through the passageways and into the kitchen, which would leave the chance for them to speak on without his knowing. If only she could hear him…
"Mon dieu," Marguerite said again, her voice also rising slightly. "Chauvelin...how can I-" she stopped short. Casting a glance at the doorway-had she heard Percy returning?-no, she hadn't. "How can I do that to my husband? If both of you were to hate me or not, I can't, I can't.." she continued, spitefully, "If I found evidence against him you'd send him to the guillotine anyway." crossing her arms and turning half-away from him, she added, "France is no longer my country, Monsieur-and I have no wish to promote the activities going on in Paris." her voice was hard, and she meant for the subject to be closed-but knowing Chauvelin, it was anything but.
Concealed in the passage, Percy threw his fists in the air in silent triumph. Yes! Oh, yes, Marguerite! That's my girl! Bravo! Turning so that he faced the wall he was listening against, he leaned forward and kissed the place where he estimated Marguerite to be standing, drawing away after a pause with a smile warm and genuine. Equally as silent, he shuffled back the way he came as quickly as he could without making a sound. Once out of the passage way he slipped back into the kitchen where he had originally intended to go and grabbed a tray prepared with small snack cakes and crackers and a few cups waiting for tea. Striking up the same merry hum he pranced joyfully back to the den.
"You can," Chauvelin urged. "You can! I give you my word: get me what I want and your husband will not be harmed. There is only one man France wants, and that's--"
"That demmed elusive Pimpernel!" Percy sang as he appeared back into the airy room, his face plastered with inane grins that firstly landed on Marguerite. "As you requested, milady!" Setting the tray down, he straightened, pulling the edges of his coat with a huff as though exhausted. "So...what did I miss?"
At the appearance of the ninny Chauvelin immediately fell quiet, stiffening visibly as he stepped quickly away from Marguerite. "Nothing, monsieur. Just some idle chit-chat, I'm afraid."
Seeming disappointed, Percy pouted a moment, and then shrugged the matter away with a gesture to the tray. "Ah, well, demmed luck. Here you are: the best of our hors d'vours."
Oddly enough, Percy had pronounced the French word as it was spelled, ending up saying something as to the aspect of "horse devourers" rather than what was correct. Shaking his head in despair for the nincompoop, Chauvelin stepped forward to examine the tray, on the verge of correcting Percy when something he noticed stopped him. "Monsiuer?" he asked quizzically, gesturing to Percy's feet. Looking down in genuine ignorance, Percy saw too late that he had left his shoes in the passageway. Turning as red as the Pimpernel's said color, he reached up to scratch his chin, blue eyes glancing up to Marguerite for a moment.
"Well, sink me! How did that happen?" he laughed.
Equally cold, equally formal, Chauvelin's dark eyes narrowed on her childlike face as he replied. "Last time has no bearing on this case, mademoiselle. It involves..." He paused, noticing Percy still lingering in the doorway. With a start, as though having been caught listening, Percy flared back to the usual energy of the nincompoop.
"Ah, yes, quite right. Now where is that cook? Oh, cooooooook-ie!" On silent steps despite his long strides, Percy vanished into the deeper corridors of the mansion, his turned-away face fixed solidly with determination as he sped as quickly as he could manage. He wasn't leaving Marguerite alone with that man any longer than he had to.
A visible wave of relief swept over Chauvelin when Percy had gone, his tall, thin frame relaxing and turning back to Marguerite. Letting his dark eyes rove over her, he saw ever more as the same little actress he'd known. The same face radiating child-like innocence, no matter how much he knew better it had always appeared that way. Her bright blue eyes, glimmering with that keen intelligence and wit, her smooth pale skin, like ivory, and her petite feminine mouth that alone could master any expression. Watching her now, not a bit changed from the girl he knew in France, he wondered if her view of him had changed at all. Possibly, not entirely, was his conclusion. You can't kill feelings that intense. Blinking as though to bring him back to his senses, the Frenchman straightened with the same formal attitude, drawing a sharp breath. "Tell me, Marguerite, you do know of the Scarlet Pimpernel, don't you?"
"Everyone knows of the Scarlet Pimpernel," she replied lightly, listening to her husband's steps receding quietly down the hall. "You must know by now, Chauvelin, he's the only topic of conversation." Staring at him knowingly, she continued, "But surely you don't just want to know that. You already did, I'm sure." Eyeing him in much the way he was eyeing her, she noted that he, also, looked much the same-just more-determined, it seemed. The same stormy eyes, darkly handsome features...if it wasn't for his more-or-less obsessions with the ideals of France, they could very well have… no, best not to think about it.
"What is it, Chauvelin?"
"Oh no, chère," Chauvelin said lightly, stepping closer to her. Unclasping his hands from behind his back he took hold of her arm just above her elbow, not a tight or painful hold but enough to emphasize his words and keep her sure attention. "He is much more than conversation. We have more proof than ever now that he does exist, Marguerite." Not bothering to clarify who "we" was, he went on, his face deep and earnest in seriousness, yet alight with those passionate fires reserved for only when he spoke of the country he so loved and its affairs. "And more than that, all evidence points to someone from England who lives near the channel." He took another step closer until he was a breath's distance from her ear so that he could speak without any risk of detection. "And there is even more to support that your husband is involved, perhaps deeper than he should be." He drew back to his previous position, letting the news make its own way.
Already shaking him loose when he drew back, Marguerite let out a shrill giggle- unlike her, but she couldn't even fathom the idea. "Percy?! But-but.." she sputtered, before regaining control of herself. "My husband-you said yourself-he's not….Chauvelin!" she finally let out in anguish. "You're not serious." Finally deciding it had to be some sort of trick. "Chauvelin, I mean it. What do you want? I'm hardly in the mood for-" she pushed her hair out of her face in annoyance and finally just sputtered, at a loss for words; "Prove it, Citizen, if that's what you want me to believe!"
"One doesn't have to be a genius to be of help to the traitor," Chauvelin replied coldly, having already thoroughly thought through the entire situation. "His money would be more than enough to service the activities of the Pimpernel, his name a renowned password, and his many residences the perfect place to house the Pimpernel's men and their escapees. Trust me, Madame, it is quite fathomable." He laughed then, a hollow sound despite its genuine meaning, and turned away from her to approach the mantle where he eyed a small painted portrait of Percy and Marguerite in a golden frame. Marguerite looked ravishing in her wedding dress, and rightfully so, it was just a pity she was with the wrong man. "Prove it," he echoed, keeping his back to her. The tone of his voice was that of a snake waiting to strike, and one that had a clear shot and perfect aim. "Even you can't deny that Monsieur Blakeney is so often away from home, taking trips across the Channel to and from France. What does he do on those visits? Can you tell me that, chère? Does he ever tell you?" A cold mockery here, because above all Chauvelin knew he didn't. Even if Percy had made some excuse, that's all it was. An excuse. With Marguerite's attention caught, he planted the final seed of suspicion. "For all you know of your husband, Madame, he could not only be helping the Pimpernel destroy the efforts of France but may be harboring a mistress across the Channel, as well…" She couldn't see it, but Chauvelin's grin as he spoke was evil, mocking with vile pleasure. He was enjoying this too much.
Marguerite's expression didn't waver, but if you looked closely enough, you'd see her eyes grow hard and her jaw set. When she spoke it was very, very softly. "What is it you want, Chauvelin? You didn't come here simply to mock me." clenching her hands again into fists, she wished she hadn't sent her husband away in the first place-what was keeping him? She couldn't even bear to think of Percy across that channel by himself, let alone with a woman… "If you didn't want something," she continued, in a thoughtful, accusing tone, "you wouldn't be here."
Chauvelin scoffed lightly to himself, looking down at his waistcoat to caress the red, white, and blue sash about his waist fondly. His true colors...all that he stood for. Sighing, he answered in a much softer tone, but none the less intense. "You're right, of course, Marguerite. You always are." A long pause in which Chauvelin thought, even more fondly: 'you always were'.
"I want you, Marguerite, to help me in finding the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel so that my colleagues and I can put a stop to his meddling in affairs that aren't his." He turned back to her, for once his gaze sincere, pleading in earnest. "You're the cleverest woman in Europe, chère, and have won that title with good reason. As an actress and a woman you can persuade information from people and root out things I cannot. I came here to ask you to help your country, Madame. This isn't a personal favor I'm asking, it's for France. There's great things happening in our home, Marguerite, and we can't afford to let the interference of one man stop us now." He paused, his eyes roving her face. "You and I usually work so well together..." Stopping suddenly, he turned back, straightening the neck of his coat. "Besides, your assistance might clear your husband of some major charges...should he be convicted."
"Blackmail," Marguerite murmured, sounding amused. But all amusement faded as she snapped, "You want me to betray my husband as I betrayed the Marquis de St. Cyr for you, is that it?" eyes flashing, she ceased, her breast heaving with emotion. "If helping my country means betraying Percy, or the Scarlet Pimpernel....mon dieu, I don't know, Chauvelin, what it is you'd have me do...he already has absolute contempt for his wife." shaking her head, she finally mumbled, staring directly at the floor, "...how could I help you, anyway?" she asked, sullenly. Where was Percy? As soon as Chauvelin had gone, she would tell him everything. And, and he'd be the old Percy, and he'd know what to do, and they'd love each other again...
Content with this solution, she stubbornly pressed, "What would Percy's...charge be? What eviden-" changing her mind, she asked instead, "What could I do to-" she swallowed "-lighten whatever you were going to-to.." her voice wavered on the last words and she clamped her mouth shut. This man in front of her had almost complete control-and she hated it.
"Betray him for his own sake," Chauvelin snapped in reply, his voice rising sharply but still keeping wary of any eavesdroppers. "You can keep him from getting in any deeper than he already is. Et puis, what want have you for him? You yourself say he hates you." A pause in which he licked his dry lips, noticing his fist was clenched and forcing it to release. "You can do plenty, chère. Surely there is a room somewhere in this mansion of yours that your husband keeps locked up, yet he is constantly inside doing things you don't know, hoarding charts and letters that he doesn't let you see. What you can do is find those things he hides so secretively when is he away on one of his trips. You find them and relay to me every piece of information you come across…where he goes, who the letters are from, any indication of what he does when he is in France. Surely a woman as witty as Marguerite St. Just can pull that off under the nose of a fool." Here he laughed, mocking her worry and reveling in the fact he had her cornered. "His charge? Treason, Madame. Treason against England, for the Prince of Wales himself has questioned Sir Blakeney about these matters and was given false information. And these deeds are acts of war against France. Should your husband be so unfortunately caught in France and convicted of these charges, it's the guillotine for sure." A strange delight shone in Chauvelin's eyes as he said this, one he couldn't hide. "But you can help, Marguerite. Get me the information I need to find the Pimpernel himself and I can pull my strings to keep your husband out of harm's way. All I want is the Pimpernel. Your husband's life is of no interest to me." Little did he know he was speaking of the very same person…
Nor did he know that at that moment that very person was in his own dilemma as he listened to every word that was uttered between them. The enormous house that Percy and Marguerite resided in was one that had been built by Percy's father when he finally settled in England. Percy had grown up in this house, and knew each and every direction, entrance, and exit of the many hidden passages that wound throughout the place between the walls. After making for the kitchen and knowing he was out of sight he ducked into one such passage concealed under a tapestry, and removing his shoes he moved silently along until he knew form experience that he stood behind the thin layer of building material that separated him from the den Marguerite and that man conversed in. A tiny peephole, no larger than a coin, allowed sufficient space for him to listen carefully to their conversation, his back pressed against the lining of the narrow corridor with his eyes focused intently ahead. Fearing the worst as their words grew deeper and deeper in intensity, he clenched his eyes shut, pressing his hands in strain against the wall as though making a physical effort that would carry out his thoughts. "Don't do it, Marguerite," he whispered under his breath as one would a prayer. "Don't agree to anything…he's too close to the truth to be comfortable, yes, but don't agree to anything! Lord, give me a sign that I can trust you…" He knew well enough that had he known where the conversation was going he could have slipped back out and interrupted them, not giving his wife the chance to answer, but in order to do so he would have to make his way back through the passageways and into the kitchen, which would leave the chance for them to speak on without his knowing. If only she could hear him…
"Mon dieu," Marguerite said again, her voice also rising slightly. "Chauvelin...how can I-" she stopped short. Casting a glance at the doorway-had she heard Percy returning?-no, she hadn't. "How can I do that to my husband? If both of you were to hate me or not, I can't, I can't.." she continued, spitefully, "If I found evidence against him you'd send him to the guillotine anyway." crossing her arms and turning half-away from him, she added, "France is no longer my country, Monsieur-and I have no wish to promote the activities going on in Paris." her voice was hard, and she meant for the subject to be closed-but knowing Chauvelin, it was anything but.
Concealed in the passage, Percy threw his fists in the air in silent triumph. Yes! Oh, yes, Marguerite! That's my girl! Bravo! Turning so that he faced the wall he was listening against, he leaned forward and kissed the place where he estimated Marguerite to be standing, drawing away after a pause with a smile warm and genuine. Equally as silent, he shuffled back the way he came as quickly as he could without making a sound. Once out of the passage way he slipped back into the kitchen where he had originally intended to go and grabbed a tray prepared with small snack cakes and crackers and a few cups waiting for tea. Striking up the same merry hum he pranced joyfully back to the den.
"You can," Chauvelin urged. "You can! I give you my word: get me what I want and your husband will not be harmed. There is only one man France wants, and that's--"
"That demmed elusive Pimpernel!" Percy sang as he appeared back into the airy room, his face plastered with inane grins that firstly landed on Marguerite. "As you requested, milady!" Setting the tray down, he straightened, pulling the edges of his coat with a huff as though exhausted. "So...what did I miss?"
At the appearance of the ninny Chauvelin immediately fell quiet, stiffening visibly as he stepped quickly away from Marguerite. "Nothing, monsieur. Just some idle chit-chat, I'm afraid."
Seeming disappointed, Percy pouted a moment, and then shrugged the matter away with a gesture to the tray. "Ah, well, demmed luck. Here you are: the best of our hors d'vours."
Oddly enough, Percy had pronounced the French word as it was spelled, ending up saying something as to the aspect of "horse devourers" rather than what was correct. Shaking his head in despair for the nincompoop, Chauvelin stepped forward to examine the tray, on the verge of correcting Percy when something he noticed stopped him. "Monsiuer?" he asked quizzically, gesturing to Percy's feet. Looking down in genuine ignorance, Percy saw too late that he had left his shoes in the passageway. Turning as red as the Pimpernel's said color, he reached up to scratch his chin, blue eyes glancing up to Marguerite for a moment.
"Well, sink me! How did that happen?" he laughed.
