It was long after Marguerite had left, gone back to England with only
a broken heart to accompany her, that Paul Chauvelin still paced his office
in a restless abstraction. He was plagued by the image of her face, the
sight of her tears as she hurried out of the prison, the sound of her voice
as she spoke of her husband. He'd heard that sound before. Many years and
an entire lifetime ago. It was the certain quality she spoke with when
addressing him, when she though she had been in love with him. It was a
genuine belief for her, not some scheme made up of desire and trickery for
an affair obvious to fail. No, that had been his half of the relation.
Marguerite had believed in it. Now she was wiser, and still she used that
same quality when speaking of her husband. She knew the truth of that
quality now, no doubt. She knew when it was justified to be used. Cursing
himself mercilessly, Chauvelin slammed one fist against the wood lining of
one of his office windows and leaned against the frame. This particular
station offered him a plain view of the square below, that infamous center
of Parisian activity where the guillotine stood tall and proud in the
afternoon sunlight. The square was full of people, buzzing with activity,
jeering and cheering alike as high banners of the French Republican flag
were held aloft and burned. Robespierre's trial had ended with a guilty
verdict. Today he was to be executed.
They would be coming for him next.
Even though Chauvelin had withdrawn his support of Robespierre at the last possible moment to avoid being arrested himself, he was still too closely associated with the dethroned tyrant by everyone else to escape unscathed. He could leave France, he knew, go into hiding, be stripped of his title, start a new life in another country like so many of the aristocrats he had hunted down over his career. Now the tables had turned. Even now as he watched, Maximilien Robespierre was being led to the guillotine in the prison cart. People spat, threw rotten food, thrust mutilated Republican emblems into his line of vision, and shouted out their defiance. The same voices that had cheered his being elected to office only a short while ago. Robespierre wasn't alone, either. He had several followers who accompanied him in his slow ride towards death: those steadfast few who still believed in what they tried to do and were willing to die for it. Chauvelin wasn't among them. He'd abandoned his cause. He'd forsaken his beliefs. He'd chosen rather to save his own neck for a time.
Perhaps that was the cause of his restlessness. That among other things. After years of trying it was only after the Reign of Terror was over that he was able to capture the Pimpernel. Only now in his greatest moment of defeat was he able to accomplish his highest objective. Life could be cruelly ironic. Chauvelin finally began to realize things he'd never seen before as his eyes followed Robespierre's figure up the steps to the guillotine's platform. The man's head was wrapped in bandages, having been shot in the jaw during his arrest. Whether by himself in a suicide attempt to by the guards, only those who had been there knew. Chauvelin preferred to think the latter, thus preserving Robespierre as he remembered him, but at the same time knew the man was not beyond the former. Wrenching himself away from the window, the black-clad official paced the room again, one end to the other and back again. It was hopeless now. Whether he lived or not, Chauvelin knew he had no future. The Revolution was over. The Republic dead. Everything he'd lived and worked for all his life was shattered like a fallen mirror upon the stone sidewalk. He could kill the Scarlet Pimpernel now himself and nobody would notice. The Pimpernel was a legend. He'd stood for something once. Hope. Ahh yes, hope. That thing that forced the aristocrats to look out over the crowd as they were lowered down on the guillotine. Hope. That thing that drove Chauvelin back to the window to gaze down, seeing Robespierre placed into his final position. Hope. The thing that had driven Marguerite to him one last time on her husband's behalf. Hope.
What Chauvelin didn't have. Hope.
The guillotine's blade fell. Chauvelin fled his office amidst the sound of celebrated cheering, never to return.
Percival Blakeney had been asleep in his windowless prison cell when the door was suddenly thrown open. The grating sound of wood against stone, of rusty hinges, stirred the Englishman in awareness. He blinked and lifted his head from where it rested on his arm, squinting against the torchlight that spilled in. A tall silhouette swept in with clear intentions, and Percy hadn't the time to get to his feet on his own accord when the figure's firm grip yanked him up by the collar of his filthy shirt. Chauvelin's familiar voice no longer kept the silhouette's identity a secret.
"Robespierre is dead," he said, voice biting and cold as always. "You're next."
Percy glared at his long-time enemy but wasn't allowed the time to make contact before he was roughly shoved out of the cell, hands tied behind him, and pushed along the prison corridor towards the entrance way where Chauvelin's black carriage waited. Percy was shoved inside without being spoken to, and still store from the numerous beatings he'd received he didn't bother to try and sit up as they took off. But he did notice that he was alone in the carriage.
A long ride later, the carriage abruptly stopped. Harsh French words were spoken outside and immediately after the door way flung open. Percy's tired mind could barely register the activity, it happened so fast, as he was yanked out of the carriage and shoved away a few steps. He kept his balance but still gazed at the surroundings with an unsteady waver. They were outside of Paris. Beyond himself and the carriage the high wall surrounding the city stood like a monolith, unmoving for eternity, while in the other direction the countryside spread out as far as the eye could see, dotted with small houses and forests. Not having the slightest idea what was going on, the one-time Pimpernel looked back to see Chauvelin arguing with the driver of the carriage. A heated conversation, Percy kept out of it and occupied himself with the odds of his running away when his hopes were nullified by the sight of Chauvelin drawing a gun from his belt in a rage of heated passion, pointing it angrily at the driver and cursing in such a way that would make most sailors blush. Pale-faced, the driver took off, running back towards the gate of the city and never once looking back. Only then did Percy understand what was going on. Chauvelin didn't want any witnesses when he killed Percy himself.
Percy straightened as best he could as he met Chauvelin's gaze. The Frenchman looked as haggard as the English gent felt. For awhile there was only silence, a tension radiating between the two like static electricity until, finally, Chauvelin moved. Lifting his gun, he broke out in a full- throttle dash towards Percy and stopped just far away enough to lower the weapon and press it to Percy's chest. His breath came in heaving pants, a cold seat coating his features, and his expression was that of one in clench-eyed prayer.
"God, please give me the strength!" Chauvelin ground out loud, turning his face and closed eyes away as his hand shook that held the gun. Percy braced himself, but did not flinch. He closed his own eyes, preparing for the end, thinking only of Marguerite. He drew in a deep breath and held it.
A long while passed and nothing happened. Desperately needing to breath again, Percy exhaled and drew in another, realizing only then how fast his heart was racing, and dared to open his eyes. Chauvelin was still there, the gun still pointed directly at Percy's chest, but the former's gaze was fixed on the ground, moist with tears. "I can't," he rasped, so quiet Percy almost didn't hear it, and let his quivering hand that held the gun fall to his side. Percy could only watch him in a stunned silence, wondering what game the Frenchman was up to now.
"I can't do it," Chauvelin repeated, speaking to no one, staring into the distance as he brought his gaze up, seeing nothing. His shoulders sagged and jerked with each hitching breath he drew, swallowing against a lump in his throat. When his voice came again, this time directed at Percy, it was dry and cracked. "Tell me, Blakeney," were his words, catching Percy's utmost attention. "When you look at me, what do you see?"
At first Percy didn't answer. What on Earth was Chauvelin up to? Percy didn't believe his perception of Chauvelin's actions to be taken at face value. There was some meaning behind it. There always had been. Now was no different. Chauvelin looked up when he found his only answer to be silence, and again he lifted the gun, expression one of ice as he this time tilted Percy's chin back with it. "What do you see?"
"I see." Percy started, rather unsure of himself. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps Chauvelin was as he appeared: lost, desolate, hopeless. Despite their history, all that had occurred between the two of them, he found it within himself to pity the fallen Revolution. "I see a man who has lost something."
Whatever effect that answer had upon the Frenchman, it was a profound one. The tears came unhindered, and again Chauvelin let the gun fall to his side in favor of turning away, covering his face with his other hand, staggering back to the carriage to lean against it. Percy saw his chance to run away, perhaps approach the man's turned back and grab the gun, but - for whatever reason - he didn't. He remained where he was and watched this pathetic creature bear his heart and soul in such a way that Percy would never have expected from a man like Chauvelin.
"You were the man I hunted," Chauvelin said at length between gasps for breath, turning to look at Percy over his shoulder. "Ever since anything really mattered, you were what I hated most. Yet you were all I ever wanted to be. I wanted to love to woman you did. I wanted the respect you earned from your peers. I wanted the same satisfaction your efforts brought you as in mine. So much I wanted." A pause, during which all Percy could hear were Chauvelin's heart-wrenching sobs. The black-clad man's shoulders heaved and fell with every breath. "Now I have you. I hate you even more. I know I will never be you, never have what you have, and still I cannot even bring myself to kill you."
Percy didn't know what to say, or even if he should say anything. That certainly hadn't been the case in the past, when Chauvelin had been all too ready to kill him and all his men without so much as a blink. What had changed?
"Marguerite loves you," Chauvelin went on, undisturbed by Percy's presence in his confession. "Your men love you. The world loves you. I could kill you now and you would live on. The stories of your heroism, your mercy, your selflessness. You are immortal, Blakeney."
After so speaking Chauvelin seemed to get a hold of himself, or at least reach some sort of inner resolve as he straightened and dried his face, pulling down his clothes to make himself presentable in some way. Percy watched, wary and tense, ready to dodge any direction should a bullet suddenly come flying. Gathering his courage, he spoke his first words, calm and steady: "What do you want, Chauvelin?"
Chauvelin stopped, for a moment in time hearing so complex a question put into so few words. He turned and looked up to Percy's blue-eyed gaze, meeting them for only a moment, yet in that moment conveying the sorrow, despair, and remorse of his position.
"The one thing you can't give me," he said. "Hope."
Chauvelin pushed the gun back into his belt and moved forward, stepping around Percy and drawing a knife. The Englishman tensed in automatic reaction, but was held steadfast as Chauvelin cut the ropes that held his hands. Once free Percy turned to face him, unable to comprehend what would come next. Chauvelin disregarded him entirely, tossing to the rope to the side, speaking as he did. "There's money and passports in the carriage. Enough to get you back to England." Reaching inside his vest, Chauvelin withdrew a well-kept tricolor sash that he tied neatly around his waist, then once again drew the gun from his belt. He met Percy's eyes then squarely, having come to peace with his inner conflict and knowing what he had to do. "Go home, Blakeney," Chauvelin said. "There's nothing for you here." Lifting the gun to his temple, Chauvelin looked up to the sky and closed his eyes. "Tell Marguerite I've changed."
A single gunshot echoed over the vast open countryside. A solitary falcon, disturbed by the noise, took off from where it had been resting on a wooden fence post. Wings spread wide, it sailed up towards the heavens, a single black form against the blueness of the sky.
They would be coming for him next.
Even though Chauvelin had withdrawn his support of Robespierre at the last possible moment to avoid being arrested himself, he was still too closely associated with the dethroned tyrant by everyone else to escape unscathed. He could leave France, he knew, go into hiding, be stripped of his title, start a new life in another country like so many of the aristocrats he had hunted down over his career. Now the tables had turned. Even now as he watched, Maximilien Robespierre was being led to the guillotine in the prison cart. People spat, threw rotten food, thrust mutilated Republican emblems into his line of vision, and shouted out their defiance. The same voices that had cheered his being elected to office only a short while ago. Robespierre wasn't alone, either. He had several followers who accompanied him in his slow ride towards death: those steadfast few who still believed in what they tried to do and were willing to die for it. Chauvelin wasn't among them. He'd abandoned his cause. He'd forsaken his beliefs. He'd chosen rather to save his own neck for a time.
Perhaps that was the cause of his restlessness. That among other things. After years of trying it was only after the Reign of Terror was over that he was able to capture the Pimpernel. Only now in his greatest moment of defeat was he able to accomplish his highest objective. Life could be cruelly ironic. Chauvelin finally began to realize things he'd never seen before as his eyes followed Robespierre's figure up the steps to the guillotine's platform. The man's head was wrapped in bandages, having been shot in the jaw during his arrest. Whether by himself in a suicide attempt to by the guards, only those who had been there knew. Chauvelin preferred to think the latter, thus preserving Robespierre as he remembered him, but at the same time knew the man was not beyond the former. Wrenching himself away from the window, the black-clad official paced the room again, one end to the other and back again. It was hopeless now. Whether he lived or not, Chauvelin knew he had no future. The Revolution was over. The Republic dead. Everything he'd lived and worked for all his life was shattered like a fallen mirror upon the stone sidewalk. He could kill the Scarlet Pimpernel now himself and nobody would notice. The Pimpernel was a legend. He'd stood for something once. Hope. Ahh yes, hope. That thing that forced the aristocrats to look out over the crowd as they were lowered down on the guillotine. Hope. That thing that drove Chauvelin back to the window to gaze down, seeing Robespierre placed into his final position. Hope. The thing that had driven Marguerite to him one last time on her husband's behalf. Hope.
What Chauvelin didn't have. Hope.
The guillotine's blade fell. Chauvelin fled his office amidst the sound of celebrated cheering, never to return.
Percival Blakeney had been asleep in his windowless prison cell when the door was suddenly thrown open. The grating sound of wood against stone, of rusty hinges, stirred the Englishman in awareness. He blinked and lifted his head from where it rested on his arm, squinting against the torchlight that spilled in. A tall silhouette swept in with clear intentions, and Percy hadn't the time to get to his feet on his own accord when the figure's firm grip yanked him up by the collar of his filthy shirt. Chauvelin's familiar voice no longer kept the silhouette's identity a secret.
"Robespierre is dead," he said, voice biting and cold as always. "You're next."
Percy glared at his long-time enemy but wasn't allowed the time to make contact before he was roughly shoved out of the cell, hands tied behind him, and pushed along the prison corridor towards the entrance way where Chauvelin's black carriage waited. Percy was shoved inside without being spoken to, and still store from the numerous beatings he'd received he didn't bother to try and sit up as they took off. But he did notice that he was alone in the carriage.
A long ride later, the carriage abruptly stopped. Harsh French words were spoken outside and immediately after the door way flung open. Percy's tired mind could barely register the activity, it happened so fast, as he was yanked out of the carriage and shoved away a few steps. He kept his balance but still gazed at the surroundings with an unsteady waver. They were outside of Paris. Beyond himself and the carriage the high wall surrounding the city stood like a monolith, unmoving for eternity, while in the other direction the countryside spread out as far as the eye could see, dotted with small houses and forests. Not having the slightest idea what was going on, the one-time Pimpernel looked back to see Chauvelin arguing with the driver of the carriage. A heated conversation, Percy kept out of it and occupied himself with the odds of his running away when his hopes were nullified by the sight of Chauvelin drawing a gun from his belt in a rage of heated passion, pointing it angrily at the driver and cursing in such a way that would make most sailors blush. Pale-faced, the driver took off, running back towards the gate of the city and never once looking back. Only then did Percy understand what was going on. Chauvelin didn't want any witnesses when he killed Percy himself.
Percy straightened as best he could as he met Chauvelin's gaze. The Frenchman looked as haggard as the English gent felt. For awhile there was only silence, a tension radiating between the two like static electricity until, finally, Chauvelin moved. Lifting his gun, he broke out in a full- throttle dash towards Percy and stopped just far away enough to lower the weapon and press it to Percy's chest. His breath came in heaving pants, a cold seat coating his features, and his expression was that of one in clench-eyed prayer.
"God, please give me the strength!" Chauvelin ground out loud, turning his face and closed eyes away as his hand shook that held the gun. Percy braced himself, but did not flinch. He closed his own eyes, preparing for the end, thinking only of Marguerite. He drew in a deep breath and held it.
A long while passed and nothing happened. Desperately needing to breath again, Percy exhaled and drew in another, realizing only then how fast his heart was racing, and dared to open his eyes. Chauvelin was still there, the gun still pointed directly at Percy's chest, but the former's gaze was fixed on the ground, moist with tears. "I can't," he rasped, so quiet Percy almost didn't hear it, and let his quivering hand that held the gun fall to his side. Percy could only watch him in a stunned silence, wondering what game the Frenchman was up to now.
"I can't do it," Chauvelin repeated, speaking to no one, staring into the distance as he brought his gaze up, seeing nothing. His shoulders sagged and jerked with each hitching breath he drew, swallowing against a lump in his throat. When his voice came again, this time directed at Percy, it was dry and cracked. "Tell me, Blakeney," were his words, catching Percy's utmost attention. "When you look at me, what do you see?"
At first Percy didn't answer. What on Earth was Chauvelin up to? Percy didn't believe his perception of Chauvelin's actions to be taken at face value. There was some meaning behind it. There always had been. Now was no different. Chauvelin looked up when he found his only answer to be silence, and again he lifted the gun, expression one of ice as he this time tilted Percy's chin back with it. "What do you see?"
"I see." Percy started, rather unsure of himself. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps Chauvelin was as he appeared: lost, desolate, hopeless. Despite their history, all that had occurred between the two of them, he found it within himself to pity the fallen Revolution. "I see a man who has lost something."
Whatever effect that answer had upon the Frenchman, it was a profound one. The tears came unhindered, and again Chauvelin let the gun fall to his side in favor of turning away, covering his face with his other hand, staggering back to the carriage to lean against it. Percy saw his chance to run away, perhaps approach the man's turned back and grab the gun, but - for whatever reason - he didn't. He remained where he was and watched this pathetic creature bear his heart and soul in such a way that Percy would never have expected from a man like Chauvelin.
"You were the man I hunted," Chauvelin said at length between gasps for breath, turning to look at Percy over his shoulder. "Ever since anything really mattered, you were what I hated most. Yet you were all I ever wanted to be. I wanted to love to woman you did. I wanted the respect you earned from your peers. I wanted the same satisfaction your efforts brought you as in mine. So much I wanted." A pause, during which all Percy could hear were Chauvelin's heart-wrenching sobs. The black-clad man's shoulders heaved and fell with every breath. "Now I have you. I hate you even more. I know I will never be you, never have what you have, and still I cannot even bring myself to kill you."
Percy didn't know what to say, or even if he should say anything. That certainly hadn't been the case in the past, when Chauvelin had been all too ready to kill him and all his men without so much as a blink. What had changed?
"Marguerite loves you," Chauvelin went on, undisturbed by Percy's presence in his confession. "Your men love you. The world loves you. I could kill you now and you would live on. The stories of your heroism, your mercy, your selflessness. You are immortal, Blakeney."
After so speaking Chauvelin seemed to get a hold of himself, or at least reach some sort of inner resolve as he straightened and dried his face, pulling down his clothes to make himself presentable in some way. Percy watched, wary and tense, ready to dodge any direction should a bullet suddenly come flying. Gathering his courage, he spoke his first words, calm and steady: "What do you want, Chauvelin?"
Chauvelin stopped, for a moment in time hearing so complex a question put into so few words. He turned and looked up to Percy's blue-eyed gaze, meeting them for only a moment, yet in that moment conveying the sorrow, despair, and remorse of his position.
"The one thing you can't give me," he said. "Hope."
Chauvelin pushed the gun back into his belt and moved forward, stepping around Percy and drawing a knife. The Englishman tensed in automatic reaction, but was held steadfast as Chauvelin cut the ropes that held his hands. Once free Percy turned to face him, unable to comprehend what would come next. Chauvelin disregarded him entirely, tossing to the rope to the side, speaking as he did. "There's money and passports in the carriage. Enough to get you back to England." Reaching inside his vest, Chauvelin withdrew a well-kept tricolor sash that he tied neatly around his waist, then once again drew the gun from his belt. He met Percy's eyes then squarely, having come to peace with his inner conflict and knowing what he had to do. "Go home, Blakeney," Chauvelin said. "There's nothing for you here." Lifting the gun to his temple, Chauvelin looked up to the sky and closed his eyes. "Tell Marguerite I've changed."
A single gunshot echoed over the vast open countryside. A solitary falcon, disturbed by the noise, took off from where it had been resting on a wooden fence post. Wings spread wide, it sailed up towards the heavens, a single black form against the blueness of the sky.