Author's Note: This chapter is mostly dialogue, and by the end I was nearly as confused as Marguerite. To answer the questions posed in reviews on Chapter 5: I plead the fifth. It's more fun to watch people guess. I know, I'm evil.

Spoiler Alert: To those not familiar with the sequel novel Sir Percy Hits Back, there are spoilers for that novel in this chapter, so if you haven't read the novel...you really should. The characters of Fleurette and Amédé are from that novel and do not belong to me.

As always, thank you to those reading/reviewing/favoriting/etc. You guys always make my day!

~BD

The Invisible Savior

The screaming stopped within a minute or so, though Chauvelin was only dimly aware of it. Instead, he focused solely on enjoying his meal and the warmth of the fire. The only reason he even realized that Marguerite had ceased to scream was simply because the quiet gradually pressed upon his ears, punctuated only by the logs crackling as the fire twisted and ate them away, and the wind whistling around the corners of the structure.

Eventually, after almost an hour, he arose from his chair, ordered the two men to clean the dishes and tend the fire, and he returned down the narrow hall to the back room of the cabin.

However, he was not prepared for what he saw when he opened the door.

The room was half full of snow, for the window was wide open! Herr Giselbert was lying upon the floor, prone and still, with a nasty cut across his forehead, and the two prisoners were nowhere to be seen!

For a moment, Chauvelin felt ice-cold to the very tips of his fingers, and not remotely because of the weather. Then, fury rose within him so quickly that he it was a wonder he didn't combust. He stormed over to Herr Giselbert's body, giving it a swift kick in the shins and yelling for the man to wake up.

Giselbert groaned and began to come to, but Chauvelin was too impatient to wait. He grabbed the German's shoulder and shook him roughly.

"Where are they?" he practically yelled. "What has happened?"

But Herr Giselbert was not quite conscious yet. Chauvelin was about to physically strike him when the other two men in his employment came running into the room. They had obviously heard the shouts and hurried to investigate. One of them swore violently at the scene; the other quickly stepped over Herr Giselbert and closed the window. The snow stopped blowing in and howl of the wind became somewhat muffled, and Chauvelin could hear himself thinking again, albeit said thoughts were so fast and angry that he could hardly make sense of them.

After a couple of moments, Herr Giselbert coughed and pushed to his knees, clearly attempting to respond to the accusation in Chauvelin's steely glare. "Several men," he choked out with fury, wiping blood from his face with his hand. "They burst into the window! One struck me before I could stop him! The woman was unconscious, I was waiting for her to come to again so I could continue..."

Chauvelin was at the window in a second, his eyes scanning the dark, snow-covered scene before him. It was nearly pitch-black, and the snow was blowing terribly.

"There still may be tracks," he ordered sharply, turning to the three men behind him. "Beneath the trees where the wind isn't as bad. Get going!"

It was an hollow hope, he knew, but damn it, he would try!

Herr Heinrich and Herr Traugott immediately ran out of the room to obey, while Herr Giselbert struggled to his feet.

It was then that Chauvelin noticed a piece of paper on the table, held down with a heavy, jagged rock – likely the one that had been used to incapacitate Giselbert. Chauvelin snatched the paper up, a strange feeling of déjà vu coursing through his veins. The words were written in English, jagged and distorted as Blakeney usually wrote when he was pretending to be a bloody hero, so that no one would guess his handwriting.

It was a good try, man. But not good enough.

Distantly, Marguerite could hear voices, perhaps in a different room, but her head throbbed and she was more content to lie, burrowed and snug, beneath the heavy, warm quilts that surrounded her. The bed itself was comfortable and soft, the mattress stuffed with goose feathers it seemed, and she sank deeper into its embrace.

The nearby voices were French. It was just as comforting to hear her native language, as it was to snuggle into a bed. She hadn't heard good, rich French voices in so long. On the movie sets, people were always speaking in a mix of both French and English. And around Andrew, Marguerite tended to lapse into English more often than not, for while Andrew knew a good bit of French, he'd never struck Marguerite as being fluent in the language.

These voices she was currently (though only vaguely) listening to weren't Parisian, though. One man's voice was young and his dialect was a bit rough, yet sturdy and steady; the young woman's was musical and lilting, but with a hint of the Southern countryside in it. Aix en Provence, maybe? There seemed to be another male voice or two, but their accents were indistinguishable. Marguerite furrowed her brow slightly. Odd. She didn't recognize any of the voices, but the two men who spoke so nondescriptly had a secondary accent when she actually focused a bit – English.

"...will get himself killed," the woman was saying, her tone one of deepest worry. "My father does not suffer such lightly."

"My biggest concern is that your father might get killed," replied one of the Englishmen, though in French.

The woman seemed completely unconcerned about her father's state of affairs. "He made his choices, and I made mine. We parted ways a very long time ago, and I have no desire to ever see him again or call him father. The Scarlet Pimpernel and I have discussed that, Monsieur Dewhurst. Please do not worry about me. I only desire to help the League, just as I did during the war."

"No one's going to die," said the second Englishman, slightly exasperated. "The chief doesn't work that way. If he didn't kill back then, he won't do it now."

"I think you're wrong," said the man named Dewhurst, his voice dark and worried. "As long as the man lives, there will be no peace for any of us. Forgive me, Mademoiselle, for I know he is your father, but still..."

The second man drawled, "Getting tired of running all over Europe, Tony?"

"Hardly," snorted the first. "Sod off, Denys."

"Well," the second went on, "I'll admit, this was a lot easier when we were in our twenties."

"You might tell that to the chief. See what he has to say about the subject of your getting too old."

"Egads. I wouldn't want to see his look of disappointment. Don't you breathe a word to him, do you hear me, Tony?"

"I can barely hear you at all, what with all the wind outside."

The woman laughed, sweet and child-like. "Enough, monsieurs! You are always jesting around! You have your orders, do you not?"

"As always. He'll be here soon. And be careful, little one."

"Please tell your wife I asked of her, Monsieur Dewhurst. I do miss her."

"As soon as this blows over, I intend to bring her over for a visit. She misses you, and Lord knows she misses France sometimes!"

Someone opened a door to the outside and the voices were lost to the storm; Marguerite buried herself deeper within the bedding and winced at the thought of the cold. The door banged shut again and silence pressed upon her ears; she relaxed slightly and slowly opened her eyes.

The cozy, small room was neat and clean, lit by a cheery fire in a little square hearth, and had heavy curtains over the one tiny window. A couple of oil lamps were set on the narrow mantel, and one on a nearby dresser. The quilts covering Marguerite were soft and thick, with a lovely homespun quality, and the sheets were clean and smelled of lavender. It was so different from the life of luxury that she currently lived, but somehow, she liked it much better.

She slowly pushed herself up into a sitting position and discovered someone had changed her clothes; instead of her gray wool dress, she now wore a flannel nightgown and thick socks on her feet. Though comfortable, she felt disconnected and far away, as though perhaps she were dreaming. The last thing she remembered was too horrifying to think about, and it certainly wasn't this warm room.

The door suddenly opened and a young woman entered. Marguerite jolted in surprise and drew the blankets up close to her chest, but the girl did not look threatening. Her hair was buttery yellow and she was quite petite and lovely, with large blue eyes, and slender like a willow.

She immediately came to the bedside, smiling in relief. "Oh! You're awake! I'm so glad. I was so very worried when Monsieur Dewhurst and Monsieur Denys brought you here. You were pale as death." She placed a cool hand on Marguerite's forehead, feeling for fever.

"Where am I?" Marguerite whispered, her throat hoarse and raw.

"The French Alps, ma'am." The girl withdrew her hand, and turned instead to stoke the fire. "Near the Swiss border. This cabin belongs to a friend of my husband's. He is gracious to allow us to use it when we wish."

"Who are you?"

"Fleurette Columbe, ma'am."

None of this was making any sense to Marguerite, and she closed her eyes briefly as the fire flared and grew warmer. "How did I get here?"

"The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel brought you here," Fleurette replied, replacing the poker and coming to sit at the end of the bed. "The cabin belongs to the man himself, actually. And my husband and I are also members of the League. During the war, it was our task to keep refugees and Jews safe until the League could move them into Switzerland, so we moved from our home in the south of France to here, in order to do so. I'm afraid we haven't had much to do with the League since the war ended, but occasionally the Pimpernel steps in to rescue someone who is still pursued by former Nazis. It's dreadfully cold up here right now. I'm originally from the south, and I'm not accustomed to this weather." She smiled sheepishly at Marguerite.

Marguerite thought for a moment, then said, "But I don't understand. I was being tortured –" She shuddered at the memory; she didn't want to think about what Herr Giselbert was doing when she'd blacked out from sheer terror.

"You lost consciousness, fortunately," Fleurette explained. "Or so Monsieur Dewhurst told us. But you are safe now. And my husband and I will watch over you until you can be moved to a safer location."

"Where will that be?" Marguerite asked hollowly.

"I'm not sure. The Scarlet Pimpernel indicated he was going to move you himself. Perhaps to England? That is where he is from. I assume he will take you through Switzerland."

"How long have I been unconscious?"

Fleurette shook her head. "I'm not positive, but about eight hours? You needed the rest, I think. You looked terribly ill when they brought you here."

Marguerite chose not to respond to that, but instead asked, "What happened to Andrew?"

"He was taken to another safe location. The League thought it best if the two of you were separated."

Marguerite nodded. That was understandable, but she hated to be away from Andrew. Regardless of what he thought of her, he had been more of a friend in the past twelve hours than anyone else had been to her in the past twelve years.

"Is he safe?" The last thing she remembered, he had been unconscious on the floor, after that German devil had hit him.

"I think so. Monsieur Denys said he was."

Her next words tasted like ash in her mouth, but she forced herself to ask, "And Chauvelin? What of him?"

An odd, closed expression came over the girl's face. "I've no idea, ma'am. Sometimes I wonder why he is still alive, but then again, he was always quite gifted at slithering out of tight spots."

"Yes, I remember," Marguerite murmured.

The girl Fleurette was silent for a moment; then she roused herself, smiled apologetically, and said, "I changed your clothes earlier – the ones you had on were soaked from the snow, and they were positively frozen! I didn't want you to catch your death. I'll bring you a fresh change. If you'll excuse me." With that, she disappeared out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.

Marguerite still felt drained and confused. So much for being the sharpest mind in Europe, she thought ruefully. Absolutely nothing made sense to her, except why Chauvelin had taken her in the first place. She didn't believe for one moment that he would have allowed her to walk free, even if she had known the Scarlet Pimpernel's identity.

Two days ago, she would have insisted that Chauvelin was not to be trusted. However, if what he said was true, she was even more confused than she'd been before he'd captured her. Was the Scarlet Pimpernel truly the one behind the movie she was starring in? Well, that much must have been true – Fontbleu himself had told her in Cannes that the Scarlet Pimpernel had sanctioned the script. But the fact that he wanted to cast Marguerite in the first place was asinine. He knew what she had done. If Andrew were to be believed, no one in the League placed blame upon her, but understood that Chauvelin was the real villain, and the Scarlet Pimpernel harbored some hidden affection for her.

Well, she had not lied to Andrew, she thought bitterly, as she crawled out of bed and padded over to the fire, where it would be much warmer to undress and change. Men were always 'in love' with her. Fan letters wound their way to her, from males aged twelve to ninety, gushing over her beauty and her witty sallies that made their way into magazines, her cool persona upon the screen, her lavish gowns at parties and award ceremonies, and her sultry expressions on publicity photographs. She was tired of it. She was tired of the false love these men nursed, because people didn't know her. They only knew that which she portrayed, which she acted. She would never be able to love, because no one knew her, and she could never be with someone who believed in the lie of film.

The door opened again and Fleurette reentered the room, carrying a stack of folded clothing.

"I hope these fit," she said nervously, placing the clothing on a stool by the fire. "Your dress and shoes are still drying, I'm afraid. But your stockings are dry, and I've put them on top."

"Thank you," Marguerite replied kindly, giving the girl a wan smile and lifting a simple, plaid dress from the neat pile. "This will be just fine, I'm certain."

"I'll be right outside if you need me."

When Fleurette had left her alone again, Marguerite stripped out of the flannel nightgown and slipped the dress over her head, buttoned it up, and reached for the wool stockings. She had just sat down on the stool to pull them on when she heard the door of the cottage open and close again.

Fleurette cried out and her footsteps echoed across the main room, and a man's voice spoke boldly and cheerfully in French.

"Salut, chéri!"

"Mon Dieu! You're hurt!" Fleurette sounded horrified. "Amédé! Bring some bandages! Quickly!"

Marguerite listened intently as more footsteps echoed in the cottage, while she tugged at the stockings.

"No, no, it's quite alright. It's only a superficial cut. Had to do it myself, I'm afraid. Tony refused, you know." The man laughed, a strong, deep laugh that sent odd shivers up Marguerite's back. She quickly stood up and went to a small mirror on the wall to brush her hair back and retie it with a ribbon Fleurette had supplied.

"Do not jest," Fleurette pleaded. "Tony would never hurt you if he could help it! Come sit and eat. Madame St. Just only just awoke. She's getting dressed, and Amédé will bring the bandages so I can tend to the cut –"

"No, you mustn't, and I can't stay. I only came by to warn you –"

Marguerite's curiosity got the better of her. She tightened the ribbon, then strode to the door and threw it open, determined to see what the Scarlet Pimpernel actually looked like, to find out whom he really was. She had told Chauvelin the truth – she hadn't been interested in who the man was, before. But things had changed in the past few hours. She was currently in a lot of danger, her life was on the line, and this unknown man was pulling all the strings. Damn it all, she was going to find out his identity!

But to her utter shock, the man standing in the warm main room of the cottage was not the Scarlet Pimpernel.

It was that awful villain, Herr Giselbert – the very man who had threatened to do all manner of horrible things to her! The very last thing she remembered was him reaching for the buttons on her dress at her breasts; she had screamed and kicked and flailed to no avail – he had succeeded in ripping half her dress from her body before the whirling storm and her own terrified thoughts caught up with her and she had mercifully blacked out. But God only knew what he had really done to her, and she had been trying to block those ideas since she had awoken in this cottage to Fleurette's kindness. Now, the memory returned to her full force. Had he raped her? That had been his intent, to make her talk, to force her to give Chauvelin what he wanted, and he would have done anything to achieve that goal…!

Marguerite just did manage to press her palm to her mouth to keep from screaming, but it was only barely. She tried to turn back to the bedroom, to flee, but Fleurette had already seen her and rushed to her side, grabbed her arms, and forced Marguerite to look into her eyes.

"Non, chéri! It's perfectly safe!"

"No, no it isn't," Marguerite was blathering, and she knew it, but she couldn't help it. "He's... he's..."

The man inclined his head awkwardly to her, at complete odds to how he had behaved earlier, and said, "I am so terribly sorry to have upset you, Madame. I do apologize."

Marguerite could only stare at him in horror, before she finally found her voice and sputtered, "You! How dare you! You tried to rape me...! You were going to... I know you were...!" She had to escape; she had to get away from him. Fleurette had no idea who this man was, what he was really doing, who he was working for, and at that idea, Marguerite grabbed her young hostess's arm and blurted out, "He's working for Chauvelin!"

"No, he isn't," Fleurette insisted gently. "Monsieur Giselbert is a member of the League."

The very idea was absolutely absurd. "If that were true," Marguerite snapped, trying to rein in her terror, "then he wouldn't have tried to have his way with me! I saw the way he looked when Chauvelin told him to do as he damned well pleased with me!" As abruptly as her fear had come, it was replaced by sheer anger. Oh, she was going to kill this man, she just knew it! How dare he! She hated him, and she was going to wring his neck with her bare hands if she could get past Fleurette!

"I had to get you unconscious somehow," the man insisted, his tone changing immediately, becoming extremely annoyed and haughty, which only incensed her further. "Chauvelin is determined to kill you because you know too much! The Scarlet Pimpernel is trying to save you, Madame, though," he snorted, sounding utterly nonplussed, "God and Heaven only knows why. My orders, from him, were to pretend to be Chauvelin's accomplice, to get you unconscious, so we could get you out of that hovel and to safety, here! And if you're so damned determined to believe I'm such a villain, perhaps you should ask Fleurette about her own family! She'd love to tell you about her darling father, wouldn't you, Fleurette?"

Fleurette looked furious at this idea, and turned to face Herr Giselbert again. She even released Marguerite's arms, but Marguerite had been too stunned by the man's perfect French to continue fighting. If she had heard him speak French before German, she would have truly believed he was French. But... he looked Aryan! He even had a horrible swastika tattooed on his wrist! She had seen it earlier when he reached for her, because she remembered being completely revolted.

"That is immaterial, Monsieur," Fleurette said firmly. "Now, are you going to stay and eat something, or are you on your way out again?"

"On my way out," the man snapped, pulling a scarf back around his neck. "Chauvelin believes I'm searching for her, and I have to report back to him and lead him away from here! Though, really, I've no idea why the chief is bothering –"

"Speaking of... When is the Pimpernel coming for her?" Fleurette asked, her polite voice starting to sound terse and frustrated.

Giselbert pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and handed it to the young girl. "That should explain it," he muttered, fastening his coat buttons again.

Fleurette unfolded the paper and read the missive quickly. After a long moment, she whispered, "And what of you?" Her eyes were still gazing at the paper.

"I'm supposed to disappear into an avalanche," Giselbert groused. "Damned unpleasant, if you ask me. Though not nearly as unpleasant as being around her would be, so I'll welcome the snow."

Marguerite bristled. "You have some nerve!" she snarled, stamping her foot in anger. By God, she really was going to wring his neck! "Are you French or German? And what exactly is your real name? For I doubt it is Herr Giselbert or even Monsieur Giselbert!"

Giselbert looked rather taken aback at her fiery questions, but after a moment he said coolly, "I'm not German. And I doubt my name is of any importance to you; I'm fairly certain you wouldn't believe me regardless. You've already formed a dreadful opinion of me and I suppose I can't really blame you, but it's incredibly annoying. I'm sorry to frighten you so earlier, but it was for your own good, you know. Considering forgiving me, if you actually have a heart." And without further explanation, he ducked back out into the snow.

Marguerite was so surprised and so mad at his words that it took a few seconds before she turned to Fleurette and asked abruptly, "Who is he, exactly? Besides an abombidably unpleasant person?"

Fleurette shrugged, still keen on the piece of paper in her hands. "A member of the League. There are a number of them. Us, I mean." She turned towards the fire.

"Yes, I gathered as much." Marguerite did not like to admit it, but the way the man had looked at her back in that wretched shack was still dancing on the edges of her mind. Chauvelin's betrayal so many years ago had taught her to trust no one, and she certainly didn't trust a man pretending to be a German, especially when he had such an irritating, almighty attitude. She pressed, "But surely he has a name, and surely it isn't German."

"The League don't often give out their real names, and I am not at liberty to say any of their names without permission. Some of them, I don't know at all." Fleurette's voice was apologetic. Turning to the fire, she flicked the scrap of paper into the flames before Marguerite could ask to see it. It curled instantly, disappearing into red and gold and yellow and smoke.

Marguerite suddenly felt a flash of dread, and she sputtered, "He's not really going to die in an avalanche, is he?"

"Dieu, I hope not." Fleurette shuddered. "That would be horrid! He is a good man, really – they all act on orders, you see, and –"

Another door onto the main room suddenly opened and a stocky young man entered, looking flushed. He was carrying a small first aid kit. He took one look around the room and then his gaze settled on Fleurette.

"Where is –?"

She cut him off immediately. "He left. Madame St. Just, this is my husband, Amédé. Amédé, this is Marguerite St. Just, the actress."

Amédé flushed. "It is an honor to meet you, Madame."

"I do wish both of you would call me Margot," Marguerite said, feeling exhausted and confused and grouchy again. "I am rather tired of everyone calling me Madame as if I were some old woman!"

"I am sorry," Amédé turned an even deeper shade of red. "Please forgive me."

"It's quite alright. I'm tired and I tend to become irritable when I'm tired. Please forgive me."

Fleurette intervened quickly. "It is understandable, you have had a terrible ordeal tonight! Come, sit and have some dinner. And Amédé? Do keep a watch out. The League suggested that Chauvelin is nearby. I don't want any surprises. If he calls here, he will be shocked enough to discover us. And I would need time to hide Madame –" She blushed and broke off, then quickly amended, "Margot."

Amédé nodded, and pulled a heavy coat off a peg on the wall by the door. "Of course," he said, and disappeared out into the storm.

Marguerite sat down at a small, neatly scrubbed wooden table as Fleurette dished up stew into a bowl, and placed it before her guest, along with some thick bread. She did not eat herself, but she did join Marguerite at the table.

"It will not be long," Fleurette said gently. "And you will be away from here."

"That's just it, I'm afraid. It does not matter much where I go. Chauvelin will always come after me. I know too much about him. He will not rest until I am dead."

"The Scarlet Pimpernel has vowed to protect you. He never fails. Chauvelin is no match for him." Fleurette looked positive at this statement, but Marguerite could not help voicing her concerns.

"Everyone says that, and I know what he did in the war... Rescuing innocents from death, I mean. It was a feat that he was not killed himself! But I cannot help but wonder why on earth he wishes to protect me. There are others more worthy and deserving of his protection."

"Oh, is that what you are worried about?" Fleurette laughed softly. "He loves you, of course!"

"Hmm. That's what Andrew said." Marguerite was becoming increasingly frustrated by this little, worthless trinket of information. "But he doesn't know me. He knows only an actress on the screen, a woman in publicity photographs. I could never love a man who is only interested in superficial beauty, and I fear I am not a beautiful person on the inside."

"You are wrong," her pretty hostess responded, smiling brightly at the very conversation. "You are quite beautiful, inside and out. He loves you because you tried to help those four families. He has never even seen one of your films. He told me so, just a few days ago. Your act of bravery in the war turned his head. He's been watching you from afar since then."

Marguerite stared at her. "But I sent those four families to their deaths!"

"You do not know they died."

Those were Andrew's words, too. It was unnerving that Fleurette spoke so much like Andrew. Were the two related? Surely not. Marguerite shook the idea from her mind and plowed on, "They very likely did. So many died... So very many..."

"As I said – the Scarlet Pimpernel was more impressed by the fact that you tried to help, knowing what danger you would be in if you were caught. Danger you now face, in fact. You did not know Chauvelin was a double agent. The Scarlet Pimpernel took the deed at face value."

"But... There were many who helped those less fortunate," Marguerite protested. "Surely any of them were pretty and young. Why would he fall in love with me?"

"That's just the way of things, I suppose. I fell in love with Amédé when we were teenagers. My father was completely against the very idea of us marrying. Between that, and the war, I've become quite estranged from him."

Well, that made Giselbert's words about Fleurette's mysterious father make more sense, but it didn't satisfy Marguerite's confusion as to why the Pimpernel would be in love with her. As she swirled her spoon around her soup, she murmured thoughtfully, "You say he is in love with me. Then why has he not sought me out, to tell me?"

"You are the most popular actress in all of France. Perhaps he isn't certain how to get near you. Perhaps he knows you wouldn't believe him."

"Or perhaps he doesn't trust me."

"Of course he trusts you!"

"I was trying to help four families, but the plan backfired. Maybe," Marguerite said quietly, "The Scarlet Pimpernel doesn't think I can be trusted to know the good men from the bad."

"That is not true," Fleurette insisted, her blue eyes flashing. "Whatever else you believe or don't – I can tell you that m'Lord would trust you with his life."

"I doubt that."

"It is easier to forgive others than to forgive ourselves." Fleurette smiled and rose from her seat to refill Marguerite's mug with ale. "Have you ever been in love, Margot?"

"No. I have not." The answer was truthful and immediate.

"Never? Not once?" The younger woman looked thoroughly surprised.

Marguerite thought back, sifting through relationships in her mind. She had never gotten close to anyone; even while Armand had been with her, she had not particularly been attached to anyone. She had been young, Armand had been her protective older brother, and then the war came along and she had ensconced herself in Switzerland, living alone and avoiding people. Even now, she tended to keep her distance emotionally. Losing Armand had been terrible; she did not think she could go through losing someone ever again. She didn't trust people in general, either. None of that made for someone who would be likely to fall head over heels for an alleged Prince Charming. All men had faults, even the perfect ones.

Fleurette now looked pitying. "It is sad to go through life without love. And lonely. My father is like that."

"Who is your father?"

The girl did not answer right away. Instead, she looked quite fearful. After a long moment, she asked hesitatingly, "Will you promise not to hold it against me if I tell you? I am nothing like my father. I would never do what he has done."

"Of course not! You are very kind and good, and I am grateful to you for allowing me stay here. I don't know how I shall ever repay you for your kindness."

Fleurette fell silent, twisting her hands together as she gazed at the fire. But finally, she forced herself to meet Marguerite's eyes.

"My father... is... the very man trying to kill you," she whispered, looking quite terrified at the confession.