Even before the Terrorists had set out to eradicate France's ruling class and its monuments, the de Chauvelin estate had been in disrepair. The young Marquis preferred to spend his time in Paris and (it was rumored) a discreet cottage in the south. A succession of corrupt stewards and indifferent servants did more for the destruction of that chateau than Jacobin mobs had done for many another in the last ten years.
The Marquis himself abandoned both title and estate as a token of loyalty to the Revolutionary government, and became a disciple of the lawyer Robespierre. The servants dispersed, and the steward - a large, loud, and thoroughly disagreeable man - appeared only once or twice in a year to evict the refugees and beggars who took up residence in the derelict manor. But the steward had run afoul of the law, such as it was in these times, and in the person of an even less agreeable Parisian agent, the justice of the French Republic pursued him.
A curious thing: the agent hoped to regain his good name (such as that was) and his political standing by arresting the nondescript fugitive. In the space of a brief encounter in Paris, he had become convinced that the man was the Scarlet Pimpernel, a phantom never far from his thoughts. He commandeered a handful of troops and set forth to track, and overtake, the Englishman.
The steward (we too might recognize him as the English adventurer) would nonetheless have lost his pursuers handily, as in his many well-known exploits, had his pursuer not recognized the road he took and his likely destination. Armand, late Marquis de Chauvelin, recognized the irony as readily as Sir Percy had when he assumed the role of steward two years earlier. His admiration for the ruse was such that he lit out cross-country at a full gallop, abandoning his escort entirely, to intercept his nemesis.
Sir Percy had of course tried to render the house secure in his absence, for there were rewards to be had ferreting out ci-devants. We may pass over the particulars of new locks and strong doors to the essential details: the Scarlet Pimpernel's horses were gone, and the Marquis de Chauvelin's swords remained.
One might argue that young Armand's fencing swords have remained behind because they had no real value, and because practical swords have a blade and these were little more than overgrown barbecue skewers. But the real reason, dear reader, is this: some months previously, the ex-Agent Chauvelin challenged Sir Percival Blakeney to a duel, but failed to appear at the appointed time. That duel was postponed, not canceled, though neither man became aware of it until they met in the former gymnasium.
Sir Percival has found his horses missing, and enters from the rear of the house in something of a hurry, for he hopes to make off with Chauvelin's horse. The Frenchman makes in even more haste towards the stables to stop the Scarlet Pimpernel's escape. With what is unclear, for his inexpert horsemanship and great speed jolted his pistol out of its holster shortly after he left the highway.
It was fortunate that Sir Percy was closest to the swords, for I am not certain whether Chauvelin could have been restrained from impaling his quarry and thus bringing the tale to a premature end. Blakeney tossed the sword's mate to Chauvelin, laughing confidently. "You owe me a duel, Chambertin. I hope you remember how." (Honor has its limits, and Percy closed in even as he spoke. Chauvelin countered the first slashing blow from his knees.)
Parrying the blow, he had the space to rise (though his height was still sadly inferior to Sir Percy's), and counter with his own attack. That was repulsed in its turn. The two circled, Sir Percy launching sweeping advances that had the effect of unnerving Chauvelin to no end. Though they were easily diverted, the Frenchman had not the nerve to press his attack far enough to do Sir Percy any real harm. This sorry state of affairs might have continued, had not the Scarlet Pimpernel lost hold of his weapon.
Chauvelin seized it immediately (for, as we have said, honor has its limits), and Sir Percy looked wholly chagrined. The Frenchman still stood in his path. They stared at each other for another minute, but this time it was Chauvelin who laughed.
As ambassador to London, he had made a short career of reading loyalties and inclinations in one's face and gestures. He recognized failure by instinct. And for once there was a gap in the Scarlet Pimpernel's almost encyclopedic understanding of combat. The fox grinned, and threw a sword at Sir Percy's feet. "Best two of three, Sir Percy? You are quite good - for a beginner." Even in this he lied: fencing is a game of skill, and Blakeney had relied on strength.
And regrettably, he was correct. Sir Percy knew very well what fencing was, and had even observed matches between members of his league on occasion; but his irregular upbringing had had no time for lessons in swordsmanship. The attacks that had so unnerved Chauvelin derived from a lack of experience rather than calculated intimidation.
From here we may see the outcome: Chauvelin's greater skill must triumph over Sir Percival's earnest incompetence. Chauvelin's squad arrives at the end to bear the Scarlet Pimpernel away in disgrace, and to avoid an international incident, France allows him to die of tetanus in prison rather than send him to the guillotine. Chauvelin is quietly promoted, and given a less volatile ambassadorship with a pension.
But this was not to be. Our Frenchman had always, in the past, overestimated his chances of success against the Scarlet Pimpernel. Overconfidence had time and again ruined his plans. And, though a third repetition may be much for such a short tale, it must be said again that honor has its limits.
Now fully apprised of his opponent's shortcomings, Chauvelin outmaneuvered him a second time. Despite his more comprehensive training in the form, the pair were still more closely matched than he might have liked. It was nearly twenty years since the Marquis de Chauvelin had been accounted an excellent fencer.
Moreover, if Chauvelin had learned to read men's faces, Blakeney had a natural talent for battle that Chauvelin quickly underestimated. He left himself open to attack again and again, and Chauvelin was loathe to refuse the bait when it seemed Sir Percy might win simply by outlasting him. When the Frenchman at length attacked, Sir Percy eluded the point of the sword and dealt Chauvelin a blow that sent him spinning to the floor, senseless.
Some minutes later, Chauvelin stumbled to his feet, kicking one of the blades half-way across the room in a fit of temper. He had been relieved of his hat and traveling cloak. At length, the agent made his way to the front door and slid the bolts aside. It swung open on oiled hinges. A slip of paper wedged under the tarnished door-knocker interrupted his contemplation of the empty front walk. He snatched it only to read once again, "They seek him here..." That familiar verse triggered his surrender at last: with a groan, Chauvelin slid down to lean against the door-frame of his ancestral home, crumpling the note in his hand.