Not much of a note this time, except for this:Thank you to those who have reviewed! Because of you, I have got this chapter done in less then a week! Feel special! Anyway, this chapter should be of a slightly higher rating due to more violent insanity. But I don't think it's that bad. If you've come this far, you can handle it. One more thing. There are huge changes happening with some of these guys, and I really want to know what you think of it. So you could review or e-mail me with feedback, and I will be happy like no other. That's all. Keep reviewing, and enjoy this instalment!

Falcon in the Dive

Chapter 8: Here in Hell the Blood Runs Deeper

Marguerite walked slowly down the street in the direction of the prison where Armand was being held. Her mind frantically ran through ways she could approach the currently angry and decidedly obstinate man, for she was in desperate need to speak to him. She wasn't going because Chauvelin had told her to; she was going because she had to make things right. Talking to Percy was undeniably going to be the most difficult thing she had ever done, so she persuaded herself that if she could earn her brother's forgiveness, she might be able to convince Percy to grant her absolution as well.

Marguerite abruptly halted as she came upon the prison. The entire complex was swarming with soldiers. Even with the paranoia and fear within France in those days, this was unusual, if not unheard of. Something must have been terribly wrong. Thoughts of her brother instantly filled her mind and she rushed towards the prison out of concern for Armand's wellbeing.

Her mad dash was nearly instantly cut short as a Captain on a large horse intercepted her. "Madame," the Captain said in an authoritarian voice, "the prison is currently a restricted zone. You must leave at once."

"I beseech you, Citizen!" Marguerite desperately cried. "What is going on?"

"That information is classified and prohibited to the general public."

Marguerite's eyes narrowed in anger as the man before her suddenly became a mere obstacle to learning of her brother's safety. "You obviously don't know who I am, Citizen, so allow me to correct your ignorance." She said dangerously through clenched teeth. "I am Marguerite Blakeney, Agent Chauvelin's lover and his most trusted spy. If that does not place me far above the public, not to mention a petty soldier such as you, then I don't know what does. Now, you will tell me, Citizen, what is going on, unless you wish for my lover to know of your treatment of me."

The Captain paled. He was dealing with a woman that, as far as he was concerned, belonged to Agent Chauvelin. Though he had never met the man, the agent was renowned throughout France to be short tempered, unforgiving, possessive, and more or less insane. He realized that messing with this woman would probably get him sent straight to the Guillotine, and that would be if Lady Luck was with him. He had heard horror stories of what Chauvelin would do to some people before he sent them to their deaths.

Dismounting the horse out of respect for the woman, he bowed deeply, and with the highest regard, asserted, "Sometime this morning, the Scarlet Pimpernel infiltrated the prison and escaped with the traitor Armand St. Just, one of his league."

Marguerite's face instantly lit up. Not only was Armand safe, Percy was in France at this very moment. She muttered a hasty thank you to the Captain and rushed to the inn she said she would meet Andrew that afternoon. Since Armand's rescue had created such a commotion, perhaps Percy had anticipated her finding out about it in a short span of time and had sent Andrew to retrieve her early.

Not five minutes later, Marguerite burst into the inn where she had met with Andrew. She was horribly flushed and it hurt to breathe as her throat filled with an acidic burning from her sprint form the prison. She desperately looked around the inn and saw a familiar face in the far corner of the room. "Sir Andrew!" she cried as loudly as her weary state allowed and walked slightly unsteadily toward the man.

Andrew's attention was instantly caught as that musical voice he knew all too well called out for him. The moment he saw the woman, his face filled with worry and concern. The girl was deathly pale, breathing heavily, and looked decidedly unhealthy. "Marguerite, are you alright?" he gently inquired as he began to walk to her.

Marguerite suddenly stopped. The dizziness and the nausea she felt not long ago hit her again twice as bad as before. She swayed slightly on the spot she stood upon before she lost consciousness and fell forward.

Andrew dashed toward her as she began to fall and caught her just before she hit the floor. He felt her forehead, and despite how pale she was she burned. "Marguerite," he whispered as he gently shook her, "wake up. Please wake up." The woman didn't move, and panic gripped Andrew. He gently picked her up and cradled her in his arms and against his chest and he rushed her out of the inn and took the ill woman to see a doctor.

Chauvelin stood in silence before the cell that until this morning was Armand's. Despite all his begging and pleading, the agent would not let the young soldier out of his prison. He was stupid enough to get tricked in there; he could stay in there for all he cared. Not that he cared that Armand had escaped; he had promised his beloved Marguerite that he would be free, not to mention that St. Just no longer held any value since Chauvelin had learned that Blakeney was the Pimpernel.

What struck a cord with the agent was that the Pimpernel was in France at this very moment. Chauvelin smiled slightly as he became drunk with unrestrained evil. Percy Blakeney would die today; the cursed man was too close to the agent to escape.

The young Chauvelin stood by a table in the room and gently fingered the note bearing the insignia of the Pimpernel. "Chauvelin, these rescues must be stopped. You have been taunted enough by this Englishman."

"It ends today." Chauvelin said passionately. "The Pimpernel is in France at this very moment. By the end of the day, the man will fall."

The boy threw a confrontational look at the agent. "And if you don't succeed, Chauvelin? Then what? That damnable nuisance will continue to aid these traitors."

Chauvelin's eyes widened in concern. He hadn't thought of that, but it was certainly a possibility. "What do I do?"

The boy smiled slyly and walked toward the agent. "Simple." He reached up and sheltered Chauvelin's cheek in one hand and buried the other in his hair. He brought the agent's head down and rested it on his shoulder and whispered in his ear "Kill the prisoners. Leave no one left for the Pimpernel to save."

Chauvelin's eyes grew heave and his breathing became deeper and faster as immeasurable bloodlust filled him.

One of the captains walked into the room and saluted his superior. "Citizen, we have secured and searched the entire area. All other prisoners are present and accounted for and we have found no sign of Citizen St. Just or the Pimpernel. My men await your orders, Citizen."

Chauvelin looked u at the captain with unbarred lust in his eyes. "Remove all your troops from the prison. I want this place empty save for the traitors."

The Captain looked at the agent in disbelief. This was unheard of. "Citizen, I-"

"Now, Captain!" he shouted as unrestrained rage gripped the agent.

The Captain shrank away from Chauvelin. "Yes, of course, Citizen. Right away." The man stuttered as he turned to leave as quickly as he could; the man was incredibly intimidating.

"Captain." Chauvelin said sweetly, devoid of all the anger he previously exhibited. "Leave me your sword, would you?"

The Captain was stunned beyond speech at the agent's dramatic change of disposition. Quickly removing his sword from his belt, he laid it upon the table and left the room without delay.

Chauvelin looked indifferently at the Captain as he departed, and when the man was no longer in sight, he slowly walked over to the table, picked up the weapon and removed it from it's sheathe.

Young Chauvelin came up behind the agent and gently ran his hand over the blade. "Beautiful weapon, isn't it?"

"That it is," the agent responded, "but mine is superior. Later we must go to my office and retrieve my sword. I want to kill the Pimpernel with my own weapon."

"That we shall do, but that blade will serve our purpose. Get to work, mon ami."

The insatiable lust filled Chauvelin's eyes once again and he walked with sword drawn to the cell and unlocked the door.

The young soldier was terrified. He was not so foolish to think that the agent had opened the door to free him. After all, he had been single-handedly responsible for the successful escape of the traitor Armand St. Just.

The horror-stricken soldier rushed to the farthest corner of the cell as Chauvelin entered the prison with the tip of a saber pointed right at the young man's chest. He knew that even attempting to escape would be foolish; he was dealing with Agent Chauvelin, an overall perfect specimen of a man that happened to be one of the most feared, cruel, and powerful men in the Republic and one of the best fencers in France.

The soldier closed his eyes tight and mouthed a silent prayer that Chauvelin would kill him quickly in the least painful way possible. Somehow, though, he doubted that his prayers would be answered.

As Chauvelin slowly advanced upon the petrified man, a malicious grin slid across his face and he began to chuckle softly. Without warning, the agent lashed out with lightning speed and deadly accuracy. The tip of the sword grazed the soldier's forehead and with a quick, fluid motion, ran down to the boy's cheek, missing his eye by a fraction of an inch.

The soldier felt searing pain, followed by the sensation of blood running down his face. He shuddered and couldn't keep from weeping; he was going to die, but the agent was going to torture him first.

Chauvelin pinned the soldier's arms above his head with his arm and rested the blade against the trembling boy's stomach. He pressed his body against the young soldier, which forced the blade to shallowly cut into the boy's body. "Tell me, boy." Chauvelin whispered an inch from the soldier's face. "Do I scare you? Do you fear me?"

The soldier stared transfixed into the Chauvelin's blazing gold eyes, his falcon-like gaze holding him and preventing the terrified man from looking away. "Between sobs, he managed to choke "Yes, Citizen."

A lazy, sly smile slid across the agent's face. He inclined his head slightly and slowly licked the trail of blood on the boy's face from his chin to his temple.

Revulsion jolted through the soldier and he wept harder, disparately crying "God, help me!"

Chauvelin leaned his forehead against the soldier's and looked fiercely into his eyes. "If God cared for you, I wouldn't be standing before you now." He swiftly pressed the blade into the boy and slid it through his abdomen in one fluid movement.

The soldier's eyes widened in pain and fear for a fleeting moment before he slipped into unconsciousness and slid down the wall as the agent released his arms.

Without a glance at the man at his feet, Chauvelin turned and walked out of the cell, leaving the young man to die on the floor. Wiping the blade on his jacket, Chauvelin slowly walked out of the room, gently whispering to himself "One."

When she woke up, Marguerite found herself lying on a cot in a rather small room. She shook her head slightly as she sat up. Though she was very sore, she no longer felt sick. Deciding that she no longer needed to stay in bed, she swung her feet over the side of the cot and, slightly unsteadily, stood up. She started to head toward the door, but she stopped as a gentle voice from the corner instructed, "You're free to walk around, but it would be advised if you stay here. The doctor isn't quite done with you yet."

Instantly recognizing the voice, Marguerite ran to Sir Andrew's side and kissed his cheek. "Andrew! I'm so happy to see you! Did you save Armand? Where is he now? When are you taking me to see Percy? Are we leaving for England today?"

"Please, Madame!" Andrew cried, overwhelmed by the rapidity of her inquiry. "There will be time for questions later. The doctor will be here in a moment to have a look at you."

"I really don't think that's necessary, Andrew." She said dismissively. "I feel absolutely fine."

"Yes, well, you didn't look so well a little while ago. Better to be safe. I'd hate to deliver you to Percy in less then perfect condition."

Marguerite smiled happily and shyly looked at Andrew. "Of course. Anything for Percy." With the thought of seeing her husband soon, she grew slightly impatient. "What's taking the doctor so long, Andrew?"

"He had to go find a midwife. You know it's in bad practice for a man to examine a woman."

"Oh, that's silly." She said quietly.

"Silly or not, that's the way things are."

At that moment, the doctor walked into the room fallowed by a short, aged woman who walked with a bounce in her step as if she was twenty years old. "I promised you a doctor and I return to you with this Hag." the doctor sighed in annoyance.

"Get out of my way! Let me see the girl." the midwife said irritably as she pushed past the doctor. She walked up to Marguerite and grabbed her chin, carefully examining her face. "Well, well. Aren't you a pretty thing." She said in a much kinder tone then before. "Sit down, child, and we'll have a look at you." She quickly turned around and reeled on the doctor. "And you! Get out!"

Deciding that it wasn't worth his time to argue with the crazed woman, the doctor rolled his eyes and left the room muttering some unheard obscenity towards the midwife.

The woman glared at the doctor as he left and as soon as he was out of sight, she turned on Andrew. "And you too! Out!" she shouted at the dumbfounded man.

"But I just can't-"

"Out!" she yelled with more vigor and volume then before.

"Ok! Ok!" he hastily said as he scrambled out of the chair and toward the door. "Marguerite, you'll be alright on your own?"

"I'll be fine, Andrew."

"OUT!"

"Ok! I'm going!"

As soon as Andrew left the room, the woman viciously slammed the door behind him. She flounced over to the bed and tentatively felt Marguerite's forehead. "Hmmm…you don't feel like you're sick. Bloody men don't know anything." The midwife pulled up a chair and seated herself before Marguerite. "Now, child, I'm just going to ask you a few questions. I need you to be honest or I won't know what's wrong with you."

Marguerite nodded and gently said, "I'll do what I can."

"Good. How do you feel now? Sick at all?"

"No, I feel fine."

"Ok, good. The young man said you fainted. Do you know why?"

Marguerite shook her head. "No idea. I ran really hard before. Maybe it was because I overexerted myself."

"What did you feel like before you passed out?"

Marguerite closed her eyes and tried to remember. "I felt really sick." she finally said.

"Like how?"

"Dizzy, tired, nauseous, but I had just ran for a while. I don't think that's abnormal."

"No, maybe not. Have you felt this way before?"

"Yes. Earlier this morning."

"Ah." The woman gave a knowing smile. "You faint that time?"

"No, but…"

"But what?"

"I…I got really nauseous and threw up."

"Huh. You married, girl?"

Marguerite smiled broadly. "Yes. To the most wonderful man in existence."

The old woman leaned back in her chair and smiled to herself. Sighing softly, she got up out of the chair and affectionately patted Marguerite on the head. "Well, you're not sick with anything that's unexpected for a woman of your age."

"What?" Marguerite asked in surprise. She certainly didn't feel ill. "I don't understand."

"It's simple enough, child." she said gently. "You're with child."

Marguerite paled to near ashen grey. With child. Chauvelin's child. Any hopes she entertained of being forgiven by Percy for her weakness shattered before her eyes. How could her husband forgive her for being pregnant with another man's baby? "No," she whispered on the brink of tears, "that cannot be."

The midwife shrugged indifferently. "I could be wrong, but I doubt it." As she turned to leave, she called over her shoulder "Don't worry. It happens to the best of us."

As the woman left, Andrew entered and found Marguerite silently weeping. Whatever the doctor had told her must have been really bad. Quickly walking to her side and sitting next to her, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him. "Hush, hush. Don't cry."

"Andrew," she asked tearfully, "does Percy still love me?"

Andrew looked down at the pitiful woman with compassion. "Of course he doe, Marguerite. I don't think he could ever stop loving you." He tilted his head to the side and looked at her inquisitively. "What did the midwife say was wrong with you?"

Marguerite buried her head into his shoulder so he could not see the new tears that fell from her eyes. "Nothing but overexertion. Its just fatigue. I just need some rest and I'll be fine."

"Good." He gently said as he stroked her hair. He knew she was lying, but if she didn't wish to speak the truth, that was her business. "Come on. Let's take you to see Percy."

As she and Andrew walked out of the room, Marguerite managed to compose herself a bit, but the joy she felt in the anticipation of seeing her husband had disappeared. Now that within her body laid the seed of her passion and lust, her infidelity to her husband and her love of a man she should hate, she felt horrible about seeing Percy. How could she meet him, the Scarlet Pimpernel, with the knowledge that she was carrying the child of his bitter enemy? Sadly casting her eyes at the ground and laying her hand over her womb, she silently followed Andrew through the streets to the secluded inn where Percy was waiting for her.

The massive division of jail guards and soldiers that once protected the prison stood idle in the streets before the structure, impatiently awaiting orders from Agent Chauvelin. They were ordered to evacuate the prison early that morning and were given no further instruction. It was now around noon and there was no sign of the agent.

All the soldiers were about to give up waiting for their commander and go elsewhere when the prison gate opened, and the rowdy crowd grew instantly silent. Chauvelin walked with his jacket and vest slung over his shoulder and he was drenched in blood. He removed his once white shirt and dropped his soaking clothing at the feet of one of the soldiers and drawled in a bored tone "Get those cleaned for me, would you?"

The entire division stared at the agent with unmitigated horror; though the man's torso was covered in the thick, sticky liquid, no more was appearing. It was painfully clear that it was not the agent's own blood.

"No need to return to your posts, men." Chauvelin said tiredly.

One of the soldiers had enough with about him to ask "Why, Citizen?"

Chauvelin glared evilly at the man. "Why do you think, dolt? All the prisoners are dead. There's nobody left to guard. Go home. You're no longer needed."

The Captain of the division stepped forward and looked at the agent with wide, fearful eyes. "All of them?" he whispered in disbelieving horror. "But, Agent Chauvelin, there are over one thousand prisoners in there! Surely they can't all be dead!"

Chauvelin sighed in frustration. "There's where you're wrong, Captain." He drew a pistol from his belt and pointed the barrel at the man's forehead. "There were only seven hundred and forty three." He pulled the trigger and the man instantly fell to the floor. "Seven hundred and forty four." Without another word, the agent left the awestruck soldiers and went to his offices to retrieve his weapon.

Storming into his personal office, he threw open the doors of a large cabinet and gazed lovingly at an impressive arsenal of bladed weapons.

"They truly are beautiful, just as you said." The young Chauvelin whispered by the agent's ear. "More art then weaponry. Which shall you choose to be the Pimpernel's instrument of death?"

Without hesitation, Chauvelin reached out and grabbed a long saber that sat before the rest. He tentatively ran his fingers along the hilt and pommel and gently unsheathed the sword, revealing a polished, deadly sharp, black blade. He brought the sword up and gazed into the smooth, burnished surface, the weapon eerily reflecting his yellow eyes against the black steel. "It's the best weapon I possess. The Pimpernel deserves no less."

"Very well." The boy said as he walked away. "Come."

"Where are we going?" Chauvelin asked as he sheathed the weapon and hooked it to his belt, obediently following the child.

"First, to your flat. We need to get you cleaned up. You smell of blood. Then we need to get your horse. We're going to Calais."

"Calais? Why?"

"Because the Pimpernel has docked his ship there. He disappears from your sight within Paris, but he cannot within Calais. It's too small, and he has no choice but to return there."

"And so he has allies there, hmm?" Chauvelin asked, his eyes once again glinting with bloodlust.

The child smiled slightly at the man's expression. "But of course. Come. We must go now if we wish to intercept him."

Submissively obeying the boy, Chauvelin followed him out of the building to prepare for the raid on the small coastal town and for the death of Sir Percy Blakeney.