Chapter III
Bereft
I
Chauvelin knocked impatiently on the door of the marquis house, and waited, hopping from foot to foot with anxiety. The Marquis de Manchette opened the door finally and welcomed him in stiffly.
"Something has happened." The marquis said without hesitation. Chauvelin looked up worriedly, sensing something was wrong from the tone of the man's voice.
"The wife, Marguerite, tried to escape last night."
"And?" Chauvelin demanded, fury stirring within him.
"Word found the people who was imprisoned in my cellar, and the crowd that had gathered attacked her when she entered the alley. I found her being beaten and kicked on the ground. She is dead."
A foreign emotion smothered his anger, but Chauvelin's kept his expression impassive. He paced the floor for a length, and then looked up, "And the body?"
"I bought a cheap coffin, one of Madame Guillotine's extras, and sent it out with the rest of the headless aristos of yesterday." The Marquis replied without sentiment.
Chauvelin sank into a chair, running his hands through his hair, trying to make use of the situation. His scheme had worked too well. He had never intended for Marguerite to really die, he had planned on keeping her in his power until the Scarlet Pimpernel was dead. The outcome of his plan would have the same effect, but he never would have thought he would tell Sir Percy the truth.
He meant to break his soul. Chauvelin had seen on rare occasion the looks that passed between the husband and wife, and he had known that their love for each other was immense. What better way to destroy Sir Percy than tell him his wife had died? It would render him more harmless than chains and ropes, or weeks of sleep deprivation.
Chauvelin stood back up abruptly, and glanced at the young boy who had gingerly entered the room.
"Where's Mama?" He asked quietly, looking worriedly at his father.
"Yes," Chauvelin began with mock concern, "where is your charming wife?"
"She fell ill a few days ago," the Marquis answered slowly, "we are praying it is not the plague."
"I see. You have my sympathies." Chauvelin assured him, opening the door to let himself out. The Marquis bade him goodbye with an apology of almost letting the woman escape, which Chauvelin waved away, and hopped into his carriage.
"The Temple Prison," he ordered his driver, settling back with a hand over his eyes, trying to process everything that had happened.
II
"Monsieur Chauvertin! Come to pay me another visit, I hope? Odd's fish, and you could come no sooner, I was getting so demned weary of thinking." Sir Percy began, examining his lace cuff, "Very dull activity, wouldn't you agree, Monsieur? La! but if everyone spent more time thinking and less time doing, consider what kind of state this world would be in! Positively ghastly, if you inquire of my opinion."
Chauvelin said nothing, but gestured for the guards to retreat to their according posts. Sir Percy finally graced Chauvelin with a cheery smile, and lifted a brandy-filled goblet in acknowledgement of the man's presence.
"I must say this drink is quite quenching. I thank you, Monsieur Chauvertin, for your enduring hospitality."
"I have news," Chauvelin started softly, "news of your wife."
"How is the dear girl?" Percy asked lightly, cleaning the dirt from under one of his nails, "Sink me, Monsieur, if you've got her locked away again."
"No. No, Sir Percy, this time it is serious, so I demand you to treat it as such."
Something in Sir Percy's eyes told Chauvelin that he had caught his attention, but then the Englishman yawned widely, "Another 'either or' proposition, I presume? Lud love you, sir, but at times you are so demmed redundant."
"Three days ago she entered Paris, no doubt hoping to save you," Chauvelin stated, "she was, of course, captured by my men."
"Of course. The silly girl can't help herself. Trouble just seems to find her." Sir Percy laughed clearly, resting an elbow on his bent knee.
"Damn it, Sir Percy, she's dead!"
Chauvelin's words rang through the cell, slapping the syllables back and forth.
"You jest, Monsieur," Percy began in a low, dangerous voice, quite different than his usual lazy drawl, "for not even you are as low to lie about something of that magnitude."
Seeming to catch himself, he barked a single laugh, "Forgive that comment, my dear friend. Begad! I seem to have gotten carried away. 'Twas rude of me, I know, to insult such a generous host."
"Sir Percy I am not lying. She was held for two days in the cellar of the Marquis de Manchette, guarded by four men. Word got out, I do not know how, but it did, that I had captured the wife of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Last night she tried to escape, and might have succeeded had she known of the citizens that loitered outside the Marquis'
abode to catch a glimpse of her. Naturally when they found her trying to escape, all reason was lost. You know how the ignorant act: rashly and unthinking."
Chauvelin watched Sir Percy intently, waiting for the inevitable reaction.
It didn't come, however. Sir Percy's countenance remained blank, and he said finally, though in a strained voice, "Lud, Monsieur Chauvertin, do you take me for a fool? I demand proof that what you say is accurate, and not just another contemptuous lie."
"Indeed you are no fool, Sir Percy," Chauvelin agreed, "but I have two men here that arrived at these doors asking to see you. It seems they want to tell you something."
Chauvelin barked an order, and the guards escorted two gentlemen into the small prison cell that Sir Percy recognized immediately.
"Sir Percy, we tried to get here before you were told by them," Armand began pleadingly. In one fluid movement Sir Percy jumped to his feet and strode over to his friends, "Tell me, Armand, tell me this is all a lie. Assure me that my lovely wife is at this moment safe in England."
Armand averted his eyes from his captain's searching ones, and Sir Percy swayed on the spot, resting one hand on the stone wall for support.
Sir Andrew began softly, "We saw her last night beaten by the throng of wretches. There was nothing we could do."
"She is dead, then?" He asked, scarcely believing the words that were escaping his mouth. Armand gave a sob, letting all the unshed tears to finally fall.
"I did not intend this," Chauvelin swore, but Sir Percy finally could hide his emotion no longer, and released his fury on the small Frenchman.
"You wretched beast!" He roared, wrapping his long fingers around Chauvelin's neck, "You fiendish bastard! May God spare no mercy on your twisted soul."
Before Sir Percy could do anything more the guards were on him, prying his hands from Chauvelin. Armand and Sir Andrew leapt on the guards, swearing and beating in a flurry of fists.
More guards over came the three men, and pinioned them to the walls. Chauvelin, stooping as he tried to regain his breath, at last straightened, a solemn look on his pointed face.
"Lock the two in separate wings of the prison," he started, rubbing his throat.
Sir Percy collapsed in a heap to the floor as he dared not watch his friends lead away. His body was too wracked with sorrow to feel anything but pain. He heard Chauvelin locking the door and his footsteps slowly fading into the distance, and only then did the Scarlet Pimpernel allow his tears to descend.
Never has such weeping occurred in the Temple Prison before or since that night of anguish.