Chapter V

Sir Percy's League

I

Of all the inhabitants in France, Paul Armand Chauvelin was perhaps the most content. It was this evening at seven o'clock he would send the Scarlet Pimpernel to the French Tribunal in Boulogne. He would be traveling with the guards, of course, for this time he would make no room for error.

He sealed the message he had written to Robespierre, promising him that France would have her enemy headless before sunset of the following day. Smiling with satisfaction he handed it to the messenger standing in the doorway, and turned to look out of his window.

He looked down at the gates of the Temple Prison where a half dozen guards stood watch. A coach drew up to the doors of the prison followed by two more, and Chauvelin, feeling giddy with anticipation and anxiety, seized his cloak and made for Sir Percy's cell.

The small Frenchman unlocked the door and entered. The slim figure of Sir Percival Blakeney sat erectly, his once bright eyes now dull and as lifeless as Chauvelin had never seen them before.

"Come, Sir Percy," he began, keeping his resentment to a minimun.

The Englishman's eyes connected with Chauvelin, and he began, "Odd's fish, Chauvertin, where are we going this time?"

His voice was so forced and failing to hide the immeasurable fathoms of loss, Chauvelin felt something stir within his soul, but he quickly supressed the feeling, and said crisply, "I'm taking you to the tribunal in Boulogne where you will be tried guilty of numerous charges."

"And what of Armand St. Just and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes? Surely, monsieur, they shall be released? for you have no evidence against them."

"Evidence?" Chauvelin gave a hearty laugh, "Sir Percy, I do envy your sense of humor. The judge needs no witnesses, no evidence. He merely needs a denouncement. Madame Guillatine, as you know, is always hungry. Now come, the carriages are waiting."

II

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes pressed his ear to the door and listened carefully, waiting for the guards to leave their post. His bowl of presumably food sat untouched by his feet, and his hand rested lightly on the iron handle of the door.

Shouts came from a distance, and he heard his guards reply in angry French tones, and then footsteps pound away.

Knowing now was his chance, Sir Andrew gently turned the handle, and opened the door- unlocked, as the note promised. He stealthily crept down the stairs, surprised no guards were even remotely nearby.

Two figures detached themselves from the shadows, one bowed and limping, another tall and healthy, both heading towards him.

"Ffoulkes?" came a ragged hiss, and the stooped figure beckened for him. Sir Andrew cautiously drew nearer, and recognized the taller as Armand.

"Follow me," the old woman ordered, and hobbled with grating slowness down another set of stairs to a door. She pulled out a thick key and opened the door, gesturing for them to go through the frame and into the darkening outside world.

"Wait here," she said with an authority that neither young man dared question. Armand noticed the conspicuous hunch of the woman, and familiarity she betrayed with both of them, and voiced his opinion to Sir Andrew that is was Sir Percy in an exceptionally clever disguise.

Sir Andrew nodded, and the two waited in apprehensive silence. They heard the ringing of hooves thundering away and then the old woman returned with two more men Sir Andrew and Armand recognized immediately.

Lord Antony and My Lord Hastings greeted their previously imprisoned friends briefly, and Armand turned to the woman, smiling wider than he had for days.

"Come now, Percy, it was a clever disguise, but we need to know the rest of the plan. How are we-"

"Percy?" The woman blurted questioningly, and a sudden fear rose in Armand. He looked white-faced at his comrades, who were all regarding the woman now with surprise and nervousness.

"I am not your captain," she laughed, but before she could finish, Antony seized her shoulders and demanded, "Where is he, then?"

"I was unable to let him escape. He was under too much observation. He is in Chauvelin's coach headed for the French Tribunal."

"You foolish old crone," Hastings spat with sudden bitterness, "his life is worth more than all ours put together. Who do you think you are to save us when our captain's life is still in danger?"

"Calm youself, Hastings," Antony muttered, both hands still gripped tightly around the old woman's thin arms.

The ancient woman's eyes met his, and suddenly they sparkled with a familiar gleam. Antony let go of her, and nodded, a smile growing on his face.

"Who do you think I am?" She inquired to Hastings in a calm tone. Without another word, she yanked off her tattered cloak and straightened to a height as tall as Armand. She unwound the scarf binding her hair and let the fair locks tumble down. With a rag she wiped her face of the grime and make-up that caked it, and Armand found himself looking at Marguerite.

"Do not think I don't care about my husband's fate, dear Hastings," she said musically. Hastings turned a deep shade of scarlet, and bowed his head in apology. Armand seized his sister in a crushing embrace, and Marguerite looked up at him questioningly.

"It has not been so very long since I have seen you, Brother." She said curiously, and Armand explained what he had seen eight days ago outside the Marquis de Manchette's abode.

"No, Armand," she assured him, "it was the Marchioness Faye de Manchette you saw beaten by the rabble. She sacrificed her health to let me escape out the front door while she distracted the citizens. Now," she began with more concern, "how was Sir Percy when you last saw him?"

"Bereft," Armand replied, "struck nearly dead with grief, and Chauvelin is using that to his own advantage. The day after you tell me you escaped, I told Percy that you were killed."

Marguerite gave a gasp, covering her mouth as she whispered, "My dear Percy."

The five were silent for a moment until Sir Andrew began, "So it was you, Lady Blakeney, who sent the orders?"

She nodded, and threw her cloak back over her shoulders. She looked at Armand, and asked, "Does Chauvelin think I am dead?"

"Yes, he told Percy before we reached him."

A slight smile crept across Marguerite's face, "This can be used to our advantage. Sir Andrew and Lord Tony, go fetch the horses you arrived to Paris on. I shall ride with my brother. We must save Percy from the tribunal."

"Indeed. You have our services," Sir Andrew pledged, sweeping into a bow, and Hastings nodded earnestly, though still a bit pink in the face from guilt, added, "I shall follow you as loyally as I followed Sir Percy."

"It would seem, Little Mother," Armand began as Antony and Sir Andrew hurried off to bring the horses, "you would be your husband's Scarlet Pimpernel."

The small smile on his sister's face crept into her eyes until her whole face was glowing with pride, and she gave light laugh. A laugh that did not seem to fit in the dark street they stood in. Indeed, a laugh that did not belong in a city so wracked with hate and fear, but it was a merry laugh all the same, and for a few precious seconds Armand let his cares slip away as he listened to his beloved sister find a second of happiness.