Ok, here's the deal. I've been wanting to do a life story for Chauvelin for a while. And now that I've been taking a break from Soon the Moon Will Smoulder, I'm going to get to it. Only I think I have a bit of explaining to do as to why I am portraying Chauvelin in the manner that I am. First off, I have read the book, and fully appreciate the fact that Chauvelin was born into an aristocratic family, but inthe musical, Chauvelin is by no means an aristocrat, and I have taken him to be rather the opposite. If you don't like it, sorry. In regards to his personality, I have always seen Chauvelin as anal retentive, terribly bitter, quick to anger, highly irritated, and a bit of a packrat.And for some reason,Chauvelin struck me as the most sarcastically hysterical child ever.As an adult, he's bitter and sarcastic. Take away the bitterness, which comes later, and you've got kid Chauvelin, who probably entertained himself by going around and biting people in the ass with sarcasm. Hence, the way I'm portraying him. So that's him. And in my justification of this little detail, his aids in the musical, Mercier and Coupeau, seemed to me to be much more than just aids. They went with him everywhere,and instead of beating them for spilling humiliating information, hesilently mouthedfor them to shut up. You don't do that to people you command, you whack them upside the head and get new aids. Nope, they stuck around the entire play. That seemed to me to be more than just commander and subordinates, hence my decision to make Mercier and Coupeau childhood friends of Chauvelin.

Wow...that went on for way too long...sorry. Get reading.

Disclaimer: Scarlet Pimpernel is not mine. Neither is Chauvelin. Sad day.

And The Dream Of Paris Preys On My Bones

Chapter 1: Armand the Anti-Social

It was very rare that a common whore would go through with a pregnancy and bear a child. It was hardship enough to get by, and several months of being unable to work certainly did not help any, nor did the prospects of having another mouth to feed on the same pay. No, it was really quite detrimental to everything, but still, Gabrielle Chauvelin had gone through the idiotic process and had given birth to a son.

The child was more of a motivation for living than anything else. She did not want a child, she wanted to live, and the hard conditions of the profession had destroyed her will to continue living. That was all this boy was for; to give her something to live for. But still, she had been very young then, and was very young still, no more than five and twenty.

Of course, it was times like this that made her wonder why she had even considered having the boy in the first place.

For the fifth time in three weeks, the French National Guard was standing outside the establishment, the head of the division yelling at the owner, and two other soldiers were struggling to keep hold of a viciously squirming Armand Chauvelin. Sighing heavily as she leaned against the window, Gabrielle looked out at the spectacle; no doubt that she would be yelled at on her son's behalf. Again.

The guards finally released the boy, and he dashed past the furious owner and into the house, slamming the door behind him. The owner turned to catch the boy, missed him, and angrily stomped to the door, grabbed the handle, and erupted in rage, firing off a long sequence of curses as he found the door to be locked.

Groaning, her head hitting the glass, Gabrielle cursed the day she had refused the tonic that would rid her of the child. Where were her senses that day?

The door quickly opened and no sooner slammed shut, her nine year old son bracing himself against the door, breathing very heavily. Eyes narrowing slightly, she quickly asked, "And what did you do this time, Armand?"

"Nothing, mother," the boy quickly replied pushing himself off the door and instinctively reaching out and grabbing something on the bureau, thrusting it into his pocket without another thought to it. "The National Guard makes a game out of harassing me."

"By your logic, the entire world is out to get you in trouble, Armand!"

"Merde, but that is true!"

Groaning in frustration, she said not another word about it; arguing with the boy was simply not worth the trouble. Her green eyes followed the boy as he walked about the room, mindlessly filling his pockets with whatever was not properly nailed down, no doubt to be stored in some secret place of his for safekeeping. The boy looked nothing like his mother in any way at all; she was fair and light featured, a stark comparison to her son's dark, brooding features. She really couldn't have said where the boy had acquired the jet black hair and pale yellow eyes, but it was certainly not from her. The other girls of the house were convinced that the boy was fathered by an aristocrat, motioning to the long, slender fingers and delicate features that were typical of the Noblise; it was entirely possible, as Gabrielle was known to be frequented by aristocratic clients on a rather regular basis.

"Honestly, Armand," the woman said, gently rubbing her temples, "you are a smart boy. Why can't you do something constructive for a change?"

Turning and looking at his mother, biting his lower lip, he paused for a moment and firmly stated, "Would you like me to build you something?"

"Armand! I will have none of that! You knew what I meant! Heaven knows where you get it from."

"My father, perhaps? He was a sailor last week, what is he today?"

"I am thinking a convict!" the woman snapped. "Armand, I go through all this trouble for you! Have you no consideration of what I suffer for your antics?"

Sighing softly, and thrusting yet another knickknack into his pocket, he tentatively embraced his mother. "I am sorry, mother. I shall try to be good."

"You know, you are all I have, Armand," the young woman said softly, gently smoothing back the ebony hair. "I do not know what I would do were the National Guard to haul you off to prison."

The door flew open, and a furious man, face completely red with rage, stood in the doorway. "Perhaps next time I will suggest that they do just that!"

"Jacques, please, he is just a boy."

"He is a menace, Gabrielle! I should throw the boy out on the streets to fend for himself!"

The green eyes widened in fear, and she threw herself at his feet, clutching his hand. "Please! I beg you, have mercy on him! He is only a child!"

Jacques struck the woman with the back of his hand, and Armand instantly ran to her side, carefully held the woman and lightly stroked her cheek where she had been hit. Viciously grabbing the boy's arm, the man ripped him from his mother's side. Grimacing slightly, more in annoyance than anything else, he looked the man in the eye and said in a quite sardonic tone, "What, monsieur? Paying attention to me? Is it a holiday?"

"I should have beaten you a long time ago, boy!" the man growled, removing his belt with his free hand. "Perhaps then you would have known your place."

"Oh, I am so frightened," Armand said in a bored tone, carefully examining his fingernails.

"Armand, please!" his mother called, weeping on the floor. "You are only making it worse!"

Growling in anger, the man cast the thin, small boy on the ground and viciously struck him. He flailed him repeatedly, pausing for only a second, during which the child casually stated, "When you're done, the back door is off the hinge. You may want to get on fixing that."

Turning an even more fierce shade of red, the man redoubled his efforts in teaching the child a lesson.


"What have I done to deserve such an idiot son?" Gabrielle wailed mournfully, lightly dabbing with a wet cloth at a large gash that her son had on his shoulder from the buckle of the belt.

"Not half an hour ago you said I was intelligent, mother," Armand said quietly, poking at the floor with his toe.

"I lied. You have the intellect equal to my bedpost."

"Oh."

"You stupid boy, why not do something to keep yourself out of trouble? Can you not make some good-mannered friends?"

Armand scowled in distaste. "Must I?"

"I insist." Standing up and patting the boy on the head, she nudged him toward the door. "Go out and do something. But heaven help me, Armand, if you find yourself in anymore trouble, I will be sure that you are appropriately punished!"

Slouching slightly and bearing the most cynical look on his face, the boy marched out. Breathing deeply, he made his way off the road and ran toward the fields of the nearby Viscount's estate. He lived in a small village just outside of the city of Calais, and there was really nothing to do there but work. Of course, the only option available to the people was in some way working for the noble that owned the land, and Armand Chauvelin would have nothing to do with it. Truth be told, he would much rather remain idle and cause problems for the lord. There was really nothing like the spectacle of watching an irritated Viscount order people around to correct a small error that had been severely blown out of proportions.

Slowly walking through the fields, he stopped, looked curiously at a boy in the field, on his knees, and eyes tightly shut. He didn't think that the boy could be any older than he was, and his mother had told him to make friends…

Taking a deep breath, Armand quickly strode toward the boy, stopped before him, firmly poked his shoulder and the boy jumped up with a start, hastily muttering apologies and excuses to no one in particular.

Eyebrow raised, glaring at the boy in confusion, Armand slowly asked, "What are you doing?"

Instantly calming down upon realizing that it was not his mother that stood before him, he quickly brushed himself off, ran his hand across his auburn hair. "I…I was talking to God."

A pause. "You what?"

"God," the timid boy stated, much quieter this time. "I was talking to Him…"

"You're a loony, you know that?"

"What? No, I just-"

"God isn't real, you know that, right?"

He gasped, stared at the incredulous boy in shock. Gaping, he managed, "Don't say that! He will hear you, and you'll go to Hell and burn forever!"

"Oh, I'm shaking," the boy said, standing perfectly still. "Look how I'm shaking all over. Terrible, isn't it?"

Groaning, the auburn haired child dropped to his knees and clasped his hand together in front of him. "Dear God, please have mercy on this poor soul. He didn't mean it. Much love, your friend, Coupeau."

Dropping to his knees and mimicking the other boy, he blankly stated, "Dear God, why am I talking to myself? Why do I not have an ounce of common sense in my head? Am I really that insane as to be talking to nothing? From Chauvelin."

Coupeau cried.


"My father is a tenant on Monsieur le Viscount's land," Coupeau said proudly, walking side by side his new friend back home. "When I am older, I will inherit his debt to the Lord and be forced to work the land until my son is of age."

"My father," Chauvelin said, swinging a stick through the high grass, "could be any one of about twenty men. When I am older, I am going to find him and thank him for paying my mother before I kill him and take his shoes." He indicated to his bare and dirty feet with the top of his stick.

Coupeau stopped for a moment and gaped at the boy. Walking a little slower and a little farther away from his pale-eyed compatriot, he softly said, "My mother works at home. I am the middle of seventeen children, and mother is going to have another one soon. My father hopes it's a boy, because I am his only son, and he fears I am going to be beaten to death by my sisters before I reach the age I can father children."

"My mother is the most favored whore of the town. She is often visited by aristocratic clients, and I have seen her with Monsieur le Viscount six times before. I am her only child, but every month she must drink a tonic that makes her sick and kills the new baby." Pausing for a moment and looking into the wide green eyes of his friend, he quickly added, "I should like to meet your sisters."

"I don't think my mother would want me playing with you."

"Nonsense!" Chauvelin cried, throwing his arm around the petrified child's shoulder. "Haven't you heard? Your mother and I are going to be married, and I shall be your new father!" Digging through his pocket with his free hand, he pulled something out and held it out to the boy. "Want a peanut?"

"No…no thank you."

Shrugging indifferently, he replaced the item back into his pocket.

"You can't marry my mother…"

"My name is Chauvelin." The boy proudly stated, effectively cutting the other boy off and paying no mind to what he was saying. "I think one day I shall leave this place and find an underground tunnel where I may live alone for the rest of my life."

"You can't leave from here," Coupeau said shyly as the yellow eyes turned cold upon him. "My father says that unless you are upper class, you will live and die in the place that you were born in." Pausing for a moment he quietly asked, "Why would you want to live in a hole in the ground away from everyone?"

"To be perfectly honest, I do not quite like people at all."

"Then why are you talking to me?"

"Good question." Without another word, Chauvelin turned and walked away, leaving a very stunned Coupeau alone in the middle of a field.