A/N: Thank you EVERYONE for the reviews! They make me very happy :D The more the merrier. Also, while I'm on that tangent, I must confess here that my knowledge of French is only marginally better than Worthsby's yet somehow I seem to keep incorporating it into the story. What you see here is the scattered remains of a slightly distant high-school education and a dictionary. Basically, if you're a French wiz, please feel free to point out any corrections you might feel appropriate. I will be eternally grateful

A Matter of Disguises and the Hag Havoc Incident

In general, I'm not a quick learner by any stretch of the imagination, but I had not been a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel long before I realized I had a serious problem with recognizing Blakeney in disguise. At first, the inability was a demmned nuisance but then quickly presented itself as a nasty, tricky business that put me at a great disadvantage, since disguise was as equivocal to the Scarlet Pimpernel as cards were to a game of hazard. To make matters worse, Blakeney seemed particularly fond of disguising himself as the commonest of citizens. Ideally those he could find a ready crowd of to disappear into – usually quite disreputable workmen, soldiers, peasants, infirm cripples, elderly characters, or hags. Disguised as any of these he could attain a transformation so complete it was supernatural. But of all of these ruses, I found that of the hag to be the worst. Demme but if there weren't already hundreds of cackling, whiskery, witch-like crones running around Paris screeching "A bas les aristo! A la lanterne! Vive le Republique!" and other such epithets and curses at the top of their shrill lungs as they knitted and collected locks of decapitated nobility with their gnarled, bony hands. And when Percy transformed himself into one, naturally he made even the hoariest look like an amateur. This phenomenon ultimately led to the utter chaos and mayhem that have forever burned one particular incident into my memory. Zounds, but it seems to me monstrous unfair that the odds were set so hard against me. Looking back on it, I'm sure none of it would have happened had it not been for two events preceding it, but the 'Hag Havoc' incident as we would later dub it was nonetheless destined to be one of my most glorious demonstrations of ineptitude.

The first event that predisposed me to disaster was really nothing strange for any ordinary league member. Deciding that I would need to be eased more gently into league business after my first adventure, Percy gave me the position of courier with a mind to help me learn the layout of France, brush up on my French, and keep me out of danger's way for the time being. It was a good idea, truly it was, and in every respect ought to have worked splendidly – and so it did, at first. In response I dutifully fell to studying maps and started working with Armand to whittle my solid British accent down a bit. I even flattered myself that I was making progress of sorts – especially as I succeeded in conveying a few notes from league members to where Blakeney awaited in our temporary headquarters. But then came the instance I had to fetch a message from Blakeney while he was in disguise on the streets of Paris.

The message was certain to be rather vital – an aspect that put some pressure on my nerves – and was to be a bit of information Percy had spied out and needed to convey to Ffoulkes while remaining where he was in disguise to complete his own end of the planned rescue. Without the message, Ffoulkes would be unable to make the move necessary for success. The gravity of the situation with innocent lives in the balance was quite sufficient to overwhelm me with responsibility as I set out to meet Blakeney at the location appointed to me in previous instructions. He was to be disguised as an old man selling brooms in the Market Square. I was to approach and purchase a broom and within the broom I would find the paper I needed to deliver. These instructions were straightforward and I understood them well enough. I even managed to find the right corner of the marketplace and quickly spotted the broom maker in his stall off to the side of the square without difficulty. I took a breath to reassure myself and slouched forward nonchalantly, straightening the homespun shirt of my farmer's disguise. There was a bit of a crowd at the stall – apparently the price Percy had put on these brooms was quite a deal – and I only reached the stand after a bit of elbow shoving through housewives and scullery wenches. So it was that I did not have a moment to lay eyes on the character manning the stall until I opened my mouth to say my preplanned line in French. What I saw made me stop in horror. It wasn't Blakeney. It just couldn't be. The man I saw before me was genuinely old and wizened, his teeth were false, his hair was snow-white and appeared as thin strands emerging from under a Phrygian cap, and his voice was weak and broken. Blakeney couldn't possibly have contorted himself into such a character. Somehow I must have found the wrong broom stall which meant I must have misunderstood my instructions somewhere – sink me if I knew how – and would have to figure out a way to mend my error.

The fellow had just completed a sale with one of the women present when he turned to me and accosted me in perfect French. "Voulez-vous, Citoyen?"

I didn't have the heart to make use of my hard-practiced French and simply grinned weakly at the man, shook my head and backed away into the crowd as unobtrusively as possible.

"Mais Citoyen!" The broom man protested as I escaped. He waved an encouraging hand at me and held up a broom, "C'est bon, non?"

My heart began to race and my hands felt shaky. Why wouldn't he just leave me alone? Where in the devil was Percy? I shook my head once more and slouched off to the opposite side of the market place. A space between a fruit stand and a man selling chickens afforded me a place to lean against the wall of a building behind and collect my thoughts. I feverishly scanned the marketplace as I did. Somewhere there must be another broom stall, there just must be. But as the afternoon wore on and crowds came and went, it became obvious that there was only the one. Alas, there didn't seem to be anything else for me to do but keep watch on this stall, in the off chance that maybe Percy would turn up after all. So I surveyed the old man as he conducted business and sold most of his brooms, becoming ever more convinced that he could not be Blakeney. Sometimes, during slower periods, the fellow would look out across the market square and observe me quietly from under his bushy eyebrows, every now and then following the look with an inviting gesture to one of his brooms.

Perhaps it was Percy, I thought to myself. It had to be Percy. But no sooner would I decide this in my mind and begin to advance toward the stall than the impossibility of it overwhelmed me again and I settled back against my place of observation.

At length, it was the old man who finally broke the stalemate of our mutual staring. He had sold all of his brooms by now, except for two shabby, half-crushed articles that could never fulfill their purpose of sweeping and were hardly fit to chase a cat with. Taking up these two he stepped out from behind his stall and approached some passersby in the market square, apparently offering them a good deal for the rubbish. However, even sans-culotte have some standards of cleanliness, apparently, for the old man's offer was rejected repeatedly by three different vagabonds.

I was just thinking to myself that I had better accept my failure and report off to Andrew anyways so that there would at least still be time for him to remedy my blunder when suddenly, the broom-man walked straight toward me. With a pang of fear I realized that I had no escape as I was hemmed in on both sides by stalls and from behind by the wall of a building. If I ran forward, I would have to brush past the old man and make myself very conspicuous in my avoidance of him, attracting all sorts of suspicion. I decided immediately that I would just have to buy the brooms after all – if only to get rid of the fellow so I could get out of there.

I began to fumble with the coin purse in my pocket as he tottered right up to me.

"Citoyen," he began, brandishing a broom, "voila!" Then he leaned in closer, "Gadzooks Worthsby, what are you playing at? We've wasted half a day at this."

The surprise was so complete that a small shriek escaped my lips before I could stop it and I recoiled visibly, but fortunately I had the wits to disguise it all into a stupendous sneeze at the end, resulting in a sort of "Eeeeeeaachoo!" that managed to divert the attention it had grabbed from the remaining market-goers. "Blakeney?" I gasped, burying my nose in my sleeve to complete the mock sneeze and cover my astonishment.

The old man's features broke into a hearty grin, and his blue eyes twinkled with the familiarity of my leader. A suppressed chuckle began to shake his shoulders and had it not been for our location, I knew Blakeney would have burst out laughing as only he could do. "You really didn't recognize me, then?" He smothered another laugh. "Lud, Worthsby, I detailed the whole thing out to you, didn't I? And even if it hadn't been me, what's the harm of buying a broom just to find out? It really is imperative that you trust my instructions and follow them implicitly next time. Now here," he handed me both brooms, "take these and hurry off to Ffoulkes. You'll have just enough time to reach him if you go quickly. Our plan should still work."

"I'm sorry," I mumbled dejectedly, taking the brooms and making a pretense of paying Blakeney.

"There, there," Percy grinned. "You're getting the hang of it, old boy. Just remember, next time follow through with my instructions, even if it seems like the last thing you should do."

"Right," I nodded.

Blakeney tottered back to his stall to close up and I strode off to complete the rest of my mission – which fortunately ended in success.

This event alone would not have created the incident that was to follow. Indeed, what really precipitated the majority of the disaster can be blamed primarily on the second event. Unlike the first, which was more routine league business than not, this episode was rather more sinister. It was a mission in which I had been given verbal instructions from Blakeney to deliver to Devinne who was in disguise as a soldier by the Paris wall that evening. I had no real qualms about this, it ought to be straightforward enough, though I did dislike the idea of having interaction with Devinne. But this was my only worry as I approached the location I was to find him in and spotted him quickly enough. No need to fret about complex disguises here. He was cleaning a firearm and looked just like Devinne would look if he dressed up as a ragtag French soldier and stopped shaving for several days. I approached him casually and leaned against the wall next to him in the gathering shadows of night. There was no one near to hear us, so I spoke quietly to him in English.

"Johnny," I murmured the instructions I had been given, "Blakeney says it is to be a donkey cart with rubbish in it. It will come through at quarter past ten tomorrow morning. Don't forget to fix the theater knife as your bayonet for searching the cart. Your departure from the gate will be as before – none of those plans have changed. Have you got it?"

Devinne stared at me blankly and a strange look came over his face. "Quoi?" he asked, starting to look rather suspicious.

"E-enough of th-that," I stammered, feeling a little shaken, and tried to get a better look at my supposed comrade's face in the darkness. Devinne was beginning to look very strange. "Be a sensible f-fellow and let me know if-if you've g-g-got it."

"Pourquoi parlez-vous anglais?" he accosted me angrily, straightening up and looking quite menacing.

"Demmit, Johnny," I protested, "s-stop it this in-instant!"

"Espion anglais!" the soldier insisted.

I paled and took a step back in fear. The whole situation was impossibly unreal, but somehow I must have found a genuine French soldier who looked exactly like Devinne. Hardly able to believe my own stupidity, I started to bolt off when a helpless laugh stopped me in my tracks.

"Oh ho ho ho!" Devinne laughed. "You should have seen the look on your face!" Tears streamed down his unshaved cheeks as he held onto his rifle to keep from collapsing with gaiety. "What a good joke!"

I scowled. "Y-you're lucky I did-didn't punch you out ag-g-gain!" I retorted hotly.

Devinne just continued to laugh desperately.

"Well," I snorted, "you have your instructions. I h-however have better th-things to do with my time." I turned on my heel and strode off, leaving Devinne behind in the throes of laughter.

I would have complained of the incident to Blakeney, but I disliked to snitch – even if it was on Devinne – and so the matter was never revealed or put to rights. This was destined to be a mistake as I found out on the day Tony had a message he needed delivered to Percy.

"You'll find him disguised as an old hag," Tony informed me as he folded up a script of paper and pressed it into my hand.

Poor Tony, I dare say he would not have used such confident language if he could only have known what was to come.

"At about this time of day he should be in the vicinity of the Rue de la Savonnerie. Do you remember where that is?"

I thought I might, but just to be safe, I shook my head.

"It is near the Place de la Greve," he said. "From there follow the Seine downstream until you pass two bridges, then turn left and just keep going, eventually you will find the Savonnerie. Blakeney should not be far off."

I nodded my understanding and shoved the paper into the pocket of my tattered coat, hastening off to do as I was bidden.

"Worthsby, wait!" Dewhurst called to me just as I made it to the bottom of the rickety staircase in our lodgings.

I looked back up to see him waving his paper at me.

"Zounds man!" he laughed, "but I do believe you have a hole in your pocket!"

I thrust my hand back in and ascertained the truth of his words. "Demme," I swore, "that means I've lost my snuff too."

"Well that's a pity," Tony commiserated as I trotted back up the steps to retrieve the message. "But you know what Percy says about carrying personal articles while in disguise, you hopeless sybarite – not a good idea, you know. Here," he advised as I took the paper once more, "better just hold on to it. Good luck!"

I disliked the Place de la Greve – in fact the whole nasty place was enough to make me feel ill, what with all the executions and gore to be found there on a daily basis, courtesy of Madame la Guillotine – so I only approached as near as I dared before making use of Dewhurst's directions. Even with this precaution, however, I could still hear the rabid cries of the bloodthirsty crowd cheering as some victim of their wrath perished beneath the blade. It was a sobering noise and I wondered if it had indeed been a murderous persecutor of the people who lay dead now, or if rather it had been some poor unfortunate soul innocently caught up in circumstances beyond their control. It might even have been a child… This terrible thought served amply to remind me of why I was where I was just then and not sipping punch at a delightful garden party back home. Here my life had unprecedented purpose, risking my sorry neck for the helpless and innocent. Here, what I did could make a fathomless difference in matters of life and death itself – choosing between cuts of clothes paled by comparison.

Suddenly, I realized I had passed the second bridge over the Seine and I turned quickly down the next street, thankful that my deep study had not sent me absently to the other side of Paris before I came to. This next part would be a little tricky, though. Streets rarely ever ran at straight angles in Paris, and sometimes it was hard to tell if a street had turned or simply connected to a new street altogether. Street signs were nearly just as complex, appearing only sporadically and nailed to buildings in such secretive locations that I personally entertained the idea that whoever had installed them was possessed of a particularly sadistic sense of humor – or perhaps he had simply been thoroughly intoxicated. Alas, even if I was ever so fortunate as to actually locate one of hidden wonders, I couldn't even then be sure of which street it belonged to, as it was, more likely than not, nailed to the most non-committal angle of the building, seeming to say "I might be for this street here, but I haven't made up my mind and in fact am considering the one just to the right". It was very frustrating, but Sir Andrew had told me the best way to deal with this predicament was to foster a sense of instinct so that one did not need signs by which to guide him. I doubted my ability to do this, but I had no choice and sought to follow this advice now, aiming in the general direction of where the Rue de la Savonnerie ought to be.

Great was my delight when I spotted a sign nailed nearby stating: R. dela Savonnerie. Blakeney must be near! Indeed, I had only to look over my shoulder to spot a hag sitting on an old overturned bucket by the gutter. She was sorting through wilted and moldy objects that had once grown in a garden and had borne the name of vegetables, while muttering to herself and spitting occasionally.

I paused and admired the perfection of Blakeney's disguise for a moment. How exactly he had captured the decrepit and wiry frame, the twisted shoulders, the pointy chin, hooked nose and colorless hair of the Parisian hag. Even as I studied him, I had to resist the thought that the creature looked absolutely nothing like Blakeney – or even anything I thought he could ever achieve – lest I make the same mistake as I had before with the broom seller's disguise. I approached him confidently and stood beside his withered, hunched-over form, picking up one of the rotted vegetables and inspecting it as I spoke quietly.

"Gadzooks, Blakeney, but you look positively vile! My hat's off to you, old fellow, couldn't recognize you to save my life."

Blakeney looked up and regarded me with nasty little beady eyes that glittered with suspicion. "Quoi?" he rasped out in shrill, broken tones, displaying one lonely tooth protruding from his gums.

I laughed. "Don't even try that one on me – Devinne already pulled that trick and I won't be fooled again. Here," I secretively slipped the note behind the vegetable and handed it back to him – a maneuver Andrew had drilled me in to perfection, "it's from Tony."

The hag took the offered parcel and quickly discovered the note.

My mission now accomplished, I murmured, "Godspeed!" and ambled off in the direction of our lodgings, feeling inordinately pleased with myself. A backward glance revealed that he had perused the note – perhaps a little over-conspicuously, but then who was I to dictate secrecy to him? – and risen to his feet, shuffling off with great haste in the opposite direction. Perhaps the message had been rather urgent. I felt even more pleased with myself and indulged in taking a seat by the river to enjoy the fine weather as a reward. At last, without hitch or error, I had succeeded in following instructions and genuinely assisted Blakeney and our noble cause! Things were finally beginning to take a turn for the better. Perhaps soon I would even be entrusted with more intricate and dangerous missions if I could continue to prove myself in this manner. These thoughts were pleasing to me and I must have spent nearly an hour daydreaming and savoring them when I was rudely jolted back to reality by a startling sound.

Echoing down the streets – primarily from the direction of the Place de la Greve – came a noise such as might issue from the jaws of hell if all the souls contained therein were to shriek in unison. It was a hideous wail of terror and dismay, rising from scores of raspy throats. The effect was quite unnerving and shattered the peace I had been basking in. I rose to my feet in uncertainty and resumed my trek back to my quarters. As I left the banks of the Seine and entered the heart of Paris once more, I quickly discovered the cause of the din.

It was the hags of Paris.

There, before my bewildered eyes, was every shape and form of hag known to mankind running pell-mell every which way up and down the streets throwing their knitting and aristo's locks to the breeze as they did. Running after them in hot pursuit were the Revolutionary Guard. My jaw dropped and I gawked as soldiers seized France's most loyal revolutionaries and hustled them into carts. They were arresting all the hags! My bewilderment was great and I barely had the wits to step out of the way as a shrieking witch-like creature clawed her way past me in terror – closely shadowed by two soldiers.

Never had I seen such utter chaos. Officers on horses rode past, decreeing: "Arrêter les Vielle!" and barking out commands to their contingents. Passersby screamed, windows were smashed, and carts were overturned as the hags fled in desperation, careless of obstacles.

I began to feel an ill nausea sinking in my depths as I could only wonder, Was this something I had caused? It certainly looked like it, and if it was true, then it was the biggest disaster I had ever succeeded in instigating. My worst fears were confirmed as two officers leading a hag between them turned down the street in front of me and began to approach. It was the hag I had spoken to earlier – it was Blakeney. He had been arrested! I must have unwittingly broken his cover when I had delivered my message. With my heart in my mouth, I started to run toward the group, hoping to feign familial attachment as some sort of ruse to free him when I received an even greater surprise.

The hag had caught sight of me and began to point excitedly and screech at the officers. "Voila le espion anglais!" In a moment, they had abandoned her and were hard after me.

Either it wasn't Blakeney, or he had just come up with an excellent plan for getting rid of me. At this point I could believe anything to be possible.

This new turn of events was a terrible thing, worse than my most hideous nightmare, and had by now so far exceeded all bounds of logic that I ceased thinking and simply turned and ran. I leapt around soldiers, stumbled over hags, and hurtled down streets that I no longer recognized, not knowing what I was to do but to keep running. Suddenly, as I raced around a particularly sharp corner, an arm snaked out from an alleyway and yanked me in with surprising strength. It was another decrepit old hag, crouching behind a rain barrel. She raised a bony finger in a gesture of silence as a cry of surprise and resistance obviously rose to my lips and she motioned to me to crouch beside her. At this point, I was beyond objections and gratefully slipped in next to her, breathing a sigh of relief as my two pursuers raced obliviously past our hiding place.

"Merci, Madame," I tipped my hat and leapt back out to the street to continue my escape. My run was short-lived though as the old crone had seized me by my tattered shirt in an attempt to keep me in place. Unfortunately, the ragged garment gave way from the force and so the effort only served to throw me face-first to the street, somewhat less clothed than before. The first sight I saw as I peeled myself off the cobblestones was that of the two soldiers doubling back and catching sight of me. Stupidly, I turned to run back into the alley, succeeding only in running straight into the hag. She caught me up by the back of what remained of my shirt and started to run, dragging me along beside her and away from the pursuing soldiers.

"Run, Worthsby, for God's sake!" she hissed.

My sanity tottered and my knees weakened at the sound of Blakeney's voice, obliging him to put an arm under my shoulders to support me as we fled. "Blakeney," I moaned, "wh-what on earth?"

"Don't talk just now," he replied, "run like you've never had to run for your life before! Follow me closely!"

His words were strong and comforting, and had the effect of calming me into obedience. Soon I was pelting along at his side as he slipped us through alleys, in and out of buildings and ducked us through well-trafficked streets. At last, we came to rest in the cellar of one of our safe locations after Blakeney was certain we had shaken our pursuers. We sat a moment in silence as we caught our breath – or I did, for Blakeney looked just as fresh as if he had awoken from a nap – and sprawled out on the odds and ends of cast-off rubbish that littered the area. Then, a chuckle shook Blakeney, growing soon to a hearty laugh as he threw back his head and let the merriment of it ring freely.

"Gad Worthsby!" he exclaimed, pulling off his hag's wig and false nose, "You add an entirely new level of sport to these adventures of ours!" he laughed some more. "Sink me but I haven't had such grand fun since I was a lad!"

"What… did I… do wrong… this time?" I gasped out.

Blakeney regarded me lazily from under half-closed eyelids. "Well, sink me old chap, but the first deviation from normal procedure occurred when you delivered your message to the wrong hag. It seems she went straight to the Committee of Public Safety as soon as she ascertained she had been accosted by an Englishman with a message. It didn't take much for the chief of security to infer that the Scarlet Pimpernel must be in disguise as a hag and – perhaps overdoing things just a bit – promptly ordered that every hag in Paris be arrested and subjected to investigation in hopes of catching me. I learned this much from overhearing the commands of an officer near to me in the fray as the chaos broke loose. I was able to escape my pursuers pretty rapidly and observed the predicament you had gotten yourself into. The rest, well, I suppose you may deduce yourself."

"Has the message compromised us by falling into the hands of the French?" I groaned.

"I believe we have seen the worst of it," Blakeney grinned. "Who was it from? Probably Dewhurst, and he will have followed his instructions not to put in anything that might compromise identity. At worst, we will have to alter our plans based off whatever message happened to be contained in that paper. Who knows? Perhaps we can even use this to our advantage. But really, Worthsby," he added, "what made you give the message to that old crone in the first place? She looked nothing like me."

"She was wh-where you were su-sup-posed to be!" I practically growled. "And you never l-look like yourself wh-when y-you're in disguise!"

"Demmed sorry," he smiled apologetically, "but I suppose you are right – for the most part. My disguises are very good if I do say so myself and you were indeed supposed to find me on the Rue de la Savonnie, but, unless I am much mistaken," his eyes twinkled with mirth and he tapped me chidingly on the shoulder, "you picked up that old witch on the corner of the nearby Rue de Garconé."

I groaned again and put my head in my hands. It was hopeless. I was never going to get anything right. Now I could add those confounded street signs to my ever-growing list of problems.

"There, there," Blakeney consoled. "As I said, t'was the best sport I've had yet – Tony's going to be quite jealous when we tell him, you know. Come on, let's head back now, it's getting dark enough I think we can risk a stroll. I'll wager you twenty pounds he will be sorry to have missed it!" He laughed again. "Zounds, Worthsby!" He paused to laugh some more, "To see all those hags on the run from their precious government!" He could hardly draw breath for laughing now as he was overcome with the memory, "I would not take half the riches of the world to have forgone that moment! You saw it, Worthsby, never was there such a bedlam since the time the Earl of Chester's hounds got loose in Lady Albemarle's garden party!"

His laugh was so infectious and full of good-humor that soon, I could not help but join him.