Chapter II

The Marquis de Manchette's Cellar

I

Marguerite found herself absolutely infuriated with her spontaneous actions. Was she not regarded as "the cleverest woman in Europe?" She had always prided her wit until this day.

"Fool," she chided herself, peering through the mere crack that was a window. Thoroughly discouraged, the young woman sat back down on a barrel. She had been a fool, a downright imbecile thinking she could help her husband.

Getting up restlessly, Marguerite paced the dirt floor of the cellar, wondering where in France she was. That she was in France she could be sure, even though she, Marguerite, a daughter of this country, was no longer welcome.

And why should she not be? She was the wife of that dastardly, that audacious Scarlet Pimpernel, that savior to filthy aristos who cared for nothing but themselves.

The sound of hooves on the street by her window jerked her from thought, and she watched as a cluster of men drew near the alley.

"In there, Monsieur?" Asked one voice doubtfully.

"Yes, my skeptic friend," replied a second that Marguerite recognized with sick familiarity.

The door rattled and swung open to reveal three men finely dressed, with faces red from the February wind. The smallest of them bowed lowly, almost mockingly, to Marguerite, and descended the stairs to step lightly on the dirt floor.

"Lady Blakeney," he began grandly, "France is again blessed by your lovely presence."

"Chauvelin," Marguerite gave a curt nod, "is another ingenious yet flawed plan to destroy the Scarlet Pimpernel the reason I must play the role of the hostage again?"

Chauvelin laughed, twisting his thin hands together, "No my good woman, I shall not be using you as bait this time."

Instead of feeling relieved, Marguerite felt fear stir in her heart as she wondered what Chauvelin could have conceived that was more efficient.

"I already have the Scarlet Pimpernel trapped in the Temple Prison, to be taken to the Tribunal of the Republic in five day's time. You are, forgive my frankness, of no use to me."

"Then release me!" Marguerite exclaimed. The taller of the men who remained by the door looked as if he wouldn't have minded the idea, but Chauvelin merely gave another laugh, more cruel this time.

"My dear, you seem to have forgotten yourself," the small man began, "I am not as gullible as I was, if ever, before. I know that if I didn't have you in the protective arms of the Republic you might do something foolish like try to rescue the Scarlet Pimpernel."

Marguerite looked hard at Chauvelin, "Where am I?"

"In France, of course, and that is all I shall reveal." Chauvelin replied simply.

"Do you really think the Scarlet Pimpernel won't try to escape?" Marguerite asked carelessly, "It seems to me, Monsieur, that no matter how hard you try he always outwits you. Is another defeat really what you want, Chauvelin?"

A tinge of color rose on the diplomat's pale face and his brows furrowed. Then, as if realizing he'd let anger get the better of him, he forced a smile, "This, I assure you, will go as planned perfectly up to the moment the great English wretch has his fair head bit from his frame by France's lovely Madame Guillotine."

Marguerite failed to suppress her gasp of horror. Chauvelin's lips curled into a triumphant smile, and he bent into a sardonic bow.

"If the Marquis' cellar is not completely to your liking," he began graciously, gesturing to the tall man still standing on the top step, "do not hesitate in voicing your wishes to the Marquis himself. He is a friend of the Republic, and an amiable man who will do what he can within reason to make your stay more enjoyable."

The tall man lowered his head in affirmation of what Chauvelin said, and the latter adjusted his sable cloak tighter around his slight form.

"I have business, so I must now end our pleasurable meeting," Chauvelin concluded, and ascended the stairs.

"My men are guarding the doors and the window. Please, Lady Blakeney, refrain from doing anything foolish. Good day."

Without another word Chauvelin strode out the door, followed by the shorter of the two men. The taller, however, remained standing on the landing watching Marguerite with apprehensive eyes.

"Is there anything I can fetch you?" He asked awkwardly. Marguerite shook her head, and sat back down on the barrel.

She lifted her head to see him make for the door, but suddenly the door was being pounded on, and there came a sound of a furious woman shouting. The Marquis de Manchette's face screwed up in annoyance, and he unlocked the door and a young woman strode in.

She was tall, almost as tall as Marguerite, and had a delicate face that currently bore a glare of indignance. Her large green eyes were captivating and sparkled from the cold air outside. Her cheeks were pink from the biting wind. As she yanked her scarf angrily from her head as she talked to the marquis, she revealed a mane of thick golden hair that curled in ringlets down to her elbows.

"No more captives, LeRoi. I refuse to to let this house become a prison!" She exclaimed hotly, glancing at Marguerite. The Marquis de Manchette swiftly covered her angry little mouth with his gloved hand, and hissed, "Do not speak so loud, if someone were to hear your words they could twisted to make us traitors. Do you want our family to die?"

The woman quieted, but her eyes still flashed dangerously, "How much longer do you think your bribery will last?" She hissed, wringing her hands in a determined sort of way. "Send this woman to one of the prisons. We can't afford food for an extra person."

"I can't, Faye," the marquis growled, both his hands on her shoulders, "Chauvelin ordered me to keep her here. It is part of his plan to keep the Scarlet Pimpernel captive until the trial."

"Why doesn't he use someone else's cellar?" She demanded.

"Because he trusts us and I expect to keep it that way." The Marquis de Manchette jerked, and looked back at Marguerite as if he's forgotten she was there, and finished stiffly, "If you let your temper get the better of you we could all die. Now come with me, you look frozen," he added kindly, and wrapped an arm around the woman and let her back outside.

Marguerite heard the lock click back into place, and closed her eyes, wishing she was back in Richmond safe and happy with Sir Percy.

II

Word had gotten out that the Marquis de Manchette held the wife of the Scarlet Pimpernel in his own cellar, and citizens nearby had clustered around the alley, hoping to catch a glimpse of this woman. The guards cared not for the woman's own privacy, for they shared the same spite of the townsmen towards the wife of France's enemy.

Faye de Manchette, though upset with her husband hid the majority of her frustration, for she saw that LeRoi de Manchette wasn't entirely pleased with the scenario. Instead she waited until he had holed himself up in the study to slip through the pantry and down into the cellar.

She glanced at the faces pressed against the small window near the ceiling, and gave them a glare in return.

The woman, Marguerite, sat very still on one of the barrels, hands folded discreetly on her lap with her head bent, either in fatigue or thought the marchioness could not tell.

"Madame?" She began softly, closing the door behind her, and lighting a candle in the darkening room. Marguerite looked up, and beheld the woman with a blank countenance.

Faye offered Marguerite the bit of bread she had brought, but the woman refused it. Faye inwardly smiled, glad that this much of food might still feed her two sons.

"It comes to this," the marchioness began firmly in a low voice, capturing Marguerite's attention fully, "I refuse to hold another innocent in this cellar for the good of the Republic." The last few words she spat out bitterly, as if they were so foul she refused to keep them inside her any longer.

"To add to that," she continued, "I have a family to feed, and a fifth stomach is too costly to fill. It is for these reasons I will aid in your escape."

Something, perhaps hope, perhaps joy, sparked in the woman's blue eyes at these words. It was something so powerful and clear Faye couldn't help but smile.

III

Armand St. Just looked up at the stars that were finally piercing their way through the thin clouds. The moon, though rendered a mere disc of white haze by the clouds, would provide sufficient light, he concluded, his eyes darting to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes.

Armand watched the de Manchette house carefully, waiting for all the lights to be extinguished. He had heard word that the wife of the Scarlet Pimpernel was trapped in the cellar of the Marquis' basement, and had dragged Sir Andrew with him out of their orders to rescue his own sister.

"Now?" Sir Andrew whispered, fidgeting slightly with energy. Armand shook his head, now watching the dark alley that ran alongside one side of the house. There was a rabble congregated around what Armand could only assume was a window. Anger flowed through his blood as he thought of poor Marguerite under their shameless and uncouth gaze. He would have thought even Chauvelin would have had the decency to give her some privacy.

"If they don't leave-" Sir Andrew began uncertainly, but Armand shushed him, for something caught his attention. The crowd began yelling, and packing themselves tighter towards the wall of the marquis' house.

A shock of blonde hair appeared among the dark heads, and Armand was torn between fear and pride. Part of him was proud that she had refused to remain captive, but the rest, the sensible side of him worried for her immediate safety.

The mob of people gave more or less a roar of rage, and closed in closer to the fair head, and overcame her. Armand stifled a cry as he lunged forward, only to have Sir Andrew catch his collar.

"We can not stop a Parisian mob!" He hissed, his voice clearly showing he was just as horrified as Armand.

The crowd laughed cruelly and suddenly Armand saw his sister's head among the grasping hands and stomping legs hit the ground heavily.

Cold fear clutched Armand's heart as it plummeted down to the depths of his soul. His knees buckled and he collapsed to the stone street. Sir Andrew pulled him to his feet, as the two watched as a man appeared at the doorway in the alley, and roared unintelligible words until finally the crowd dispersed to reveal the tall crumpled form. The man, the Marquis de Manchette, carefully picked up the woman and carried her back inside.

"We must tell Percy," Sir Andrew said hoarsely, still supporting Armand's shaking form. Armand said nothing, but his friend helped guide his steps towards the Temple Prison.