The door – more like a few rough cut boards attached to the rickety frame of the house – opened, and an old man hobbled in, his hands calloused from a life of living off the sea, his beard grey, his fur bearing a rather putrid yellow tinge. Amazed, Basil did nothing for several moments, merely waited for the old man to walk further into the hut. Once in, he slowly shut the door, then walked toward the center, stoking a few coals in the roughly made hearth. Basil took a deep breath, and pounced like a cat upon this innocent old creature.
Well, maybe not quite so old after all, for the man put up as much fight as the detective did. With a triumphant snarl, he ripped the beard from the old man’s face, which quite ruined the disguise.
“Sir Percy Blakeney, we meet face to face at last!” he greeted, standing up and brushing the dirt from his trousers. Still on the floor, Blakeney was laughing his head off. He looked like a madman, in stitches on the floor, peeling the rest of the disguise off his face.
“It’s you! Lord, man, but I began to wonder if you’d never guess who the Scarlet Pimpernel really was!” Here he paused to laugh, before rising as well and scuttling about the dingy hut, retrieving wood to stoke the meager fire with. “I had you pegged down for one of Chauvelin’s men for sure, until I heard you talking with my wife at Lord Grenvile’s little soiree, hm? Hahah!”
Now it was Basil’s turn to laugh, stepping out of the mouse’s way as he rushed about the hut. “Me? In league with a French spy? You must be joking!”
“No, no! Not at all!” He now retrieved a hunk of cheese from a small basket in the corner, handing a piece to the detective. “Well, I know you’re on my side, but frankly, I still don’t know who you are! Let’s start with the introductions then, shall we?” The elegant, tall, blonde mouse bowed, pretending to have a non existent hat sweep the floor. “How do, my good man? The name is Sir Percy Blakeney, baronet. Of course, you already know all that, don’t you? Well, I’m the Scarlet Pimpernel all the same, at your service!”
Basil bowed slightly less elegantly. “Basil of Baker Street,” he replied. Percy burst into more laughter.
“You’re joking with me! The famous detective?”
“The very same.”
“Lord, what a small world, eh what? So you’re the reason my dear little Margot’s been popping off to London then? How simply marvelous! I was quite terrified that she was seeing that miserable rat, Chau-” Blakeney stopped, decided better. “Ah, well, it doesn’t matter, now does it? So, what did she implore you to do, other than find me out? Well, I suppose more appropriately, why? Not just out of women’s curiosity, I know.”
Basil’s mood became very serious. “She was terrified for her brother’s life.”
“Yes, so I’ve been told,” Blakeney responded, munching on the chunk of cheddar, dropping down next to the fire, warming his tail. “But that really doesn’t shed much light on the situation, does it?”
“Chauvelin had information that proved young St. Just was in league with the Scarlet Pimpernel,” added the brown mouse, sitting down opposite Blakeney.
“Did he now? Well, looks like Chauvelin’s finally done something right! Took the little black squirt long enough, didn’t it?”
“The condition of releasing him was that she deliver him information on the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
Percy swallowed the lump of cheese. “That’s too bad. I’m quite fond of my head. I plan to keep it. Tell me, Mr. Basil, did she succeed, with your help, of course, in trapping this elusive fellow?”
“I’m not exactly sure. I left before I could find out anything else.”
“Well, that would certainly explain how Chauvelin knew to be in the library.” Suddenly, Percy paled and became deadly serious. “She doesn’t know, does she?”
“Last that I knew, she was completely in the dark.”
Blakeney leaned against a sack of meal, sighing, staring off into space. “God knows I’ve tried telling her so many times. I just could never bring myself to do it. You know that we are estranged?” Basil nodded. “The worst few months of my entire life, I swear it. And now that I know I can finally trust her, heads go on the line; her brother’s, my league’s-”
“Your own,” added the detective. Percy gave a nervous laugh, rubbing at his throat with his paw.
“Yes, ‘spose I am in danger of a bit of a clip, what? Well,” he said, changing the subject, “as soon as Andrew gets back we’ll set off for Calais.”
“Calais?” the detective asked, surprised. “What’s in Calais?”
“Well, most of my plans and various disguises, for one, and possibly, Armand for another.”
“He is not in Paris, then?”
“No, we’ve already tried Paris. I had a contact there comb the city up and down; all the likely places and all the unlikely ones as well. No one can get a hold of his sweetheart and, worse, no one can get a hold of him. A suspicious looking squad was reported to be heading toward Calais yesterday, so, we’re taking an educated guess.”
Basil nodded, biting off a small hunk of his cheese. Blakeney finished his off, scurrying about to pack a very few things he deemed necessary, replacing his disguise. “Well, we’ll need to go to Calais in any case, if we’re to fit you up with a costume. I’m sorry, Mr. Basil, but once you poked your nose into it, you became a part of it, and I cannot let you leave until Marguerite’s brother is safe.”
“That’s good,” responded Basil, having swallowed, “because I have no intention of leaving until the job is completed; I promised Lady Blakeney to help her find the Scarlet Pimpernel and save her brother. I always keep my promises, Sir Percy.”
“In that case, I could grow quite fond of you!”
“Must we rush so?” he whined. “I mean, you’ve barely been back in Paris five hours! Aren’t you the least bit hungry? Tired?”
“I’ve got too much to do to bother with hunger or exhaustion.”
“But you know what Citizen Lamarque told me!” the nineteen year old boy continued. He rarely spoke to the older agent, who, quite frankly, terrified him, but Lamarque had given him a long talk; Chauvelin could be quite pushy, yes, but don’t let him intimidate you. Remember, we are all now equal members of a free society! “He specifically said, and you were there, that you weren’t doing a very good job of taking care of yourself, and needed to remember to eat every once in a while.” The young boy drank down some of his wine, deciding he had the courage to continue, since the agent had said nothing. “In fact, you haven’t been taking very good care of yourself since Mademoiselle St. Just lef-”
“Yes, thank you, Andre!” interrupted Chauvelin, snarling. “Forgive me if I feel I don’t need you to look into my personal life and try and divine its mysteries.”
“Yes, sir, I apologize.”
“Now, are you done eating yet?”
“It doesn’t matter if I’m done or not. The soldiers are still finishing their meal.”
Quite a few of the necessary troops were already in Calais. Chauvelin was taking extra just as a precaution. He took a quick look around the café to see who was ready to leave. Two were flirting with a young prostitute – quite a beauty, in fact – and Chauvelin rolled his eyes. He pointed to his two examples.
“Still eating, Andre? No, I think they’ve moved onto dessert.” The black mouse rose from the chair, and was about to walk over there when his young assistant managed to stammer a few coherent words.
“What are you doing? You’re not going over there, are you?”
“Why not?”
“Well…..wouldn’t it be awkward?”
Chauvelin rolled his pale blue eyes. “Dieu, you’re a pest. What did I ever do to get saddled with such a stupid little protégé as you, Andre?” Andre opened his mouth to respond, but the citizen held up a hand to silence him. “No! Don’t say it, I already know! Your uncle had enough influence to get you the job, I know, I know!”
“But really!” clamored the lad. “What are you going to do?”
“Send those idiot soldiers to get the rest ready; with any luck, we should be able to march for Calais soon, and talk to the girl.”
“Talk to her? What about?”
“Must you know every detail?” the elder snapped.
“Sir, you cannot just walk up to random prostitutes and start a conversation! I would think it impolite.”
“Why not?” argued the ebony mouse. “After all, I know her.”
“Know her?”
“Would you like me to introduce you?”
“What!”
Chauvelin turned his back on the young mouse who was nearly having a heart attack at the very idea of the highly respected Citizen Chauvelin ever having known any prostitutes, privately laughing; that is why he kept Andre around. He was inadvertently and embarrassingly funny. He smoothly walked up to the trio, who did not notice him, and began to listen to the conversation.
“You’re joking with me!” the girl exclaimed, giggling.
“Honestly!” one soldier protested.
“We captured him just a few days ago!”
“A member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel? No, no, you think you can make me believe anything. If you had captured this boy, this-”
“Armand St. Just!” they supplied.
“-you could show him to me,” she continued.
“But we can’t!” one protested.
“We have him imprisoned in Calais!”
Chauvelin coughed, startling the two soldiers, who paled. The prostitute looked uncomfortable suddenly. She was no longer smiling, not looking at the citizen if she could help it.
“We’ll be leaving in a quarter of an hour. Go pack your things,” he instructed in his soft, commanding way. Ah, nothing was better than being back in France. The very air was better in comparison to England. He’d hated to leave Fluerette there with her nurse, but time was of the essence. He’d retrieve her when he could.
The two mice rushed off to collect their things, and the girl looked like she wanted to leave, but she couldn’t; Chauvelin had trapped her with his piercing, blue eyed gaze.
“I am sorry, mademoiselle, but is it possible that we have met before?”
She smiled flirtatiously. Well, a customer was a customer, after all. “I don’t think so, but we always could get to know each other better now.”
“A charming idea,” he agreed, suddenly seizing her paw. “And you are quite charming yourself. But did you think you could really fool me, Marguerite?”
The girl’s eyes went wide, she paled. “What? What are you talking about?”
“Mesdames and Messieurs,” he suddenly announced, still holding her paw, attracting attention, “might I present to you Mademoiselle Marguerite St. Just, finally returned to France!”
Back at the table, Andre nearly died of shock. Well, that did that job, then; Chauvelin had gone mad.
But, in truth, the citizen was quite sane. He quickly whisked away the young woman’s wig, revealing long, curly auburn locks. She glared hatefully up at him, seething.
“So,” she began, “my brother is in Calais?”
“All that later,” he whispered, still holding her paw. “What was it you were saying about getting to know each other better?”
“Stop it, Chauvelin!”
He scowled. “Yes, you’re getting into the nasty habit of saying that, aren’t you? Just like at the ball, and before that, when I protected you. When I-”
“You kept me from seeing St. Cyr’s death!” she spat hatefully, “my last way to beg for forgiveness.”
“All for you, my dear,” he promised softly, pulling her closer to him, still holding that one auburn paw. “I did it all for you. Always for you.”
Suddenly, she softened, let him have his way a little, drawing her nearer to him still, not caring if anyone was watching; he’d waited too long for this moment, needed to hold her too badly to wait. “There’s something you could do for me now,” she whispered soothingly, gently running her free paw across his face and over his black hair.
“Anything, anything at all!” he sighed, breathing in her perfume, intoxicated by it. “Name it, I’ll do it.”
“Take me to my brother.” She knew that when he said “anything,” that anything had limits. To demand something more complex would not have necessarily been successful, and it would have required a lot of working down. She didn’t have the time, he didn’t have the patience.
“A simple request,” he agreed. “Of course I’ll take you. I promised you he’d be free once I have the Pimpernel.”
She stiffened. “And do you have him?”
“Soon, ma cherie, soon,” he promised, which was not what she wanted to hear. He pulled away from her, though he still held her paw. “Soon, to Calais, where we kill all the pretty little birds with one stone.”
On the outside, Marguerite smiled. On the inside, she shivered. He politely pulled out a chair for her, which she sat in, and he sat opposite, gazing at her adoringly. A few tables away, Andre was trying hard not to stare. Well, maybe with the return of Mademoiselle Marguerite Chauvelin would finally start eating.
“Why did you think I could be so close to you and not recognize you?” he asked her, running his ebony thumb across her auburn paw. “I know you too well for such games, Marguerite. Even you are not that great an actress.”
“I know, darling, I know. But there were too many….risks involved to chance it,” she whispered soothingly.
“And now I want you to make me a promise.”
She shivered. “Whatever you want.”
“When this is all over, no more games between you and I. We will be as we always were; an open book, an open love, everything. No more secrets, no more spying. You and I and Fluerette will all be happy together. Can you promise me that?”
Marguerite found that she lacked the words to answer. Better to lie to protect Armand. So long as Percy didn’t love her, it really didn’t matter. It had occurred to her that she might not make it out of France. That Chauvelin would trap her and keep her with him. Well, she might have to pay that price as well.
“Unless,” he whispered harshly, his voice taking on a terrible jealous note, “you plan to return to England.”
“There is no reason to return to England!” she quickly soothed. “Of course I promise, you know I do!”
He sighed, watching her like a dog did its master. “That’s all I want,” he told her.
All Marguerite wanted was for Armand to live. She had learned a hard lesson: Armand was worth any price.
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