Thank you to all who have been faithful in your feedback! It really does help a lot. I am in the middle of writing two different fanfics, but will try to have the second part of "Chauvelin's Rage" finished before the weekend is over. Hope you enjoy and please as always leave me feedback!

Chauvelin's Rage

Part I

The Frenchman's eyes were cold and sinister as he smashed his fist into the table. He was beginning to feel the effects of all the brandy he had so foolishly just consumed. Throwing the empty flask into the fire before him, he staggered backwards and unceremoniously fell into a chair. Since returning home from his meeting with the Committee of Public Safety, he had done nothing but pace back and forth, fuming with rage at having been made a fool of by that accursed Englishman.

Where had his plan gone wrong? How could he have failed to capture France's most hated enemy? When he had stood there before the committee, like an animal with its tail between its legs, he had blamed the entire catastrophe on his secretary, Desgas, knowing full well that the blame did not lie with the man.

Marguerite, he thought to himself. Yes, that is where the blame should fall. A woman who was a traitor to her own country; her own people, and would rather serve those blasted Englishmen than her own. That did not bother the French official nearly as much as her betrayal to him; if he were honest with himself. Chauvelin could not get her screams out of his mind when she had thought her husband to be in such peril.

He could see her shrieking wildly as she sprang to her feet. He knew then that he had made a most grave mistake by giving her a choice. He had assumed she would do anything to save the life of her precious brother; this theory had always served him well with Marguerite in the past. Instead she ran up to the walls of the hut and began pounding her clenched fists against it in a most unbecoming maniacal frenzy, while she shouted, - - "Armand! Armand! for God's sake fire! your leader is near! he is coming! he is betrayed! Armand! Armand! fire in Heaven's name!"

The soldiers quickly seized her and threw her to the ground. She lay there moaning, bruised, not seeming to care, but still half-sobbing, half-shreiking,-- "Percy, my husband, for God's sake fly! Armand! Armand! why don't you fire?"

"Damn you, Marguerite!" He spoke into the quiet. He could sit in the chair no longer, in a fit of rage he pulled himself to his feet and began throwing objects in every direction letting them smash and fall to pieces wherever they chose to land. He was like a fiend with only vengeance on his mind for what he believed was once his and only his. He pulled out a book of plays that had once belonged to Marguerite. It had been very precious to her because it had once belonged to her mother. One day while Marguerite was on the stage at the Comedie Francaise, he had waited in her dressing room, hoping to speak with her about this ridiculous rumor of her entertaining an Englishman. Something in the Frenchman that day made him wonder about Marguerite for the very first time since he had met her. When he saw the book lying open ever so careful on Marguerite's favorite chair, he simply took it, not knowing at the time why he would do such a thing. He remembered later on the tears she cried as she searched and searched for that lost book.

"Damn you, damn you, damn you!" He shouted as he tossed the book into the fire with as much force as he could manage. He threw it so hard that he lost his balance and fell, hitting his head so hard against the table that it rendered him unconscious as the blood began to seep from his wound.

As the Frenchman succumbed to the darkness that swiftly enveloped him, his mind began to dream of only one person, Marguerite St. Just.

The first time he had ever laid eyes on her seemed so long ago now, almost as if it had all been a dream. She had been on a stage in this two bit broken down tavern, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was incredible. The keeper of this tavern had no idea what she was capable of; but he realized it right away. She performed and the people of this tavern clapped their hands for her but had no knowledge of her abilities as an actress. To these poor French simpletons, she was merely entertainment and easy on the eye to behold. He watched as the play ended and she came out to have a seat. The men vainly trying to seduce her while the women ridiculed her. He had wondered how she would respond and if she would accept his chivalry in her defense. To his dismay, she stood up for herself, she spoke with a competency well above her years, with a wild untamed fire in her eyes her words silenced the lips of all those around her leaving them in a state of awe at what they had witnessed.

It was then that Chauvelin knew this woman had it within her to be the greatest actress of her era. He began spending every free moment with her, teaching her, molding her into being what he knew she could one day become. He was a playwright who knew talent when he spotted it, with Marguerite by his side, everything in the world felt right. The only thing that could make it better would be the rise of the Republic and the fall of the French Aristocracy.

Soon Marguerite no longer came to perform plays in the little tavern, but was performing in France's most prestigious theatre to have ever been built. She seemed to thrive in this theatre and was soon called to perform for the Queen herself. She was the most intellectual female Chauvelin had ever known and even he could not keep up with her at times. Most people could not hold a candle to the beautiful Marguerite St. Just. The two of them often had talks about politics and some things that were so wrong with the aristocracy. It wasn't long before Chauvelin helped Marguerite to open her first salon. Like bees to honey they swarmed around her hanging on her every word. Her salon became the most sought after salon in France and soon they were calling her "The cleverest woman in Europe".