“Andre,” he instructed, taking a map off the table and briefly glancing at it, “hire another carriage.”

“But we already have a carriage,” protested the white mouse.

“Rightly so, which is why I said another carriage.”

“But…but…..”

Chauvelin merely stood their, hands behind his back, looming menacingly. His eyebrow was raised; he waited for a reply.

“You’re not thinking of bringing her with us?” he finally managed to spit out.

“Andre, she is the only reason we are even on the clever fellow’s tail. Now, do as I say.”

Andre was naïve, not stupid. “I take it, then, that you’ll be riding with her?”

“Why shouldn’t I? She’s our guest, I ought to play host.”

“Yes, but you said you wanted to look over these papers.”

“And?”

Andre knew that the last thing he was going to be doing in a carriage with a creature as lovely as Lady Blakeney was to be studying papers.

“Well, what should I do with them, then?”

“Andre, are you never going to learn to stand on your own two feet? Are you always going to be an assistant, not an agent? I trust you can handle it.”

“But-”

A look from Chauvelin silenced all other protests. Andre sighed, his shoulders slumped, he shrugged.

“Yes, sir, of course.” He ordered the carriage.

As for Chauvelin, he ran his usual course of carefully manipulating Marguerite, trying to see how much she knew, what she concealed, what he might have to tell her. Occasionally, should the conversation lapse, he would grab her paw, and say “Tell me you love me.”

Those driven mad by grief find solace and perverse joy in violence and blood letting – theirs or other’s. Those driven mad with love find pleasure and purpose in passion and devotion – verbally or physically. Marguerite knew this, she understood this. She knew him, understood him. That is why she always replied with “I love you.” It didn’t matter to either one that it wasn’t true. All the same, those three words held the black creature in ecstasy.

It took very little time for the squadron, the agent, his assistant, and the woman to start moving again, and once they did, they covered ground at an alarming pace. Inside the second black carriage, Chauvelin finally began to get into the seriousness of his business with Marguerite.

“It is a dangerous riddle that you have been helping me to solve, ma cherie,” he told her, drawing her very close to him. “Are you prepared to know the answer yet?”

She shivered, felt an iron fist clench over her heart. Oh God, what would happen? “Yes,” she finally replied, starting to shake a little.

“To begin with, let us back track a little. I can think of a few reasons why you would tell me there is no reason to return to England. One, which I hope is true, is that you really do love me.” Here he paused to gaze adoringly at her, a spaniel to its master. “The second is that you know who the Pimpernel really is.”

She decided that the best course would be to pretend ignorance entirely. “And who is the Scarlet Pimpernel, Chauvelin?” she asked him, her voice shaking. “What is the answer to the riddle?”

He took a deep breath, savoring the tension of the moment, and looked her square in the eyes. “Your husband, Sir Percy Blakeney.”

Marguerite called on her skills as an actress; went pale, pretended to swoon. Chauvelin gave a bitter little laugh as she whispered “Mon Dieu….”

“Yes, I must say I agree. The information seemed, at first, impossible to me as well. But it all lines up, Marguerite. I have proof positive that your husband is the Scarlet Pimpernel. And in Calais, the bait and trap are laid. You do realize what this means?”

She knew, but shook her head no anyway.

“Once I catch your husband, I will kill him as a threat to France.”

Marguerite was shaking. Oh, God, then there was no hope for Percy. Well, she had been forced to choose between the Pimpernel and her brother, and she had chosen Armand. It did not make a difference who the Scarlet Pimpernel was, she would have to focus all her attention on saving her brother.

“As well you should,” she managed to say quickly. “Then France will be safe, Armand will be safe. We will be together.”

“You hold no remorse for sending him to his death?” Chauvelin asked, having expected more of a reaction than that.

She smiled, snuggling up next to him, purring in his ear. “My dear Chauvelin, my husband and I despise each other.” Well, he might still hate her, in any case, and with good reason. “Besides, isn’t this what we always wanted? Freedom for France, and to remain with each other for as long as we live?”

Chauvelin was practically melting. He believed anything she told him. She was the only woman that could set his dreams, his soul on fire. The only thing that had ever matched his lust for blood had been his lust for her, and he quickly swept her into his embrace, covering her face with kisses she pretended to want, though she did not kiss him back.

“Heaven help those, Marguerite, whom you despise. I would hate to be your enemy.”

Chauvelin was not, per say, Marguerite’s enemy. He was a memory of someone she had once been in love with, and was now simply a personification of the Revolution she despised. What he was doing was not entirely out of his own free will and malice. He was merely doing his duty. It was the twisted ideas and the blade of La Guillotine that was Marguerite’s enemy.

“Chauvelin,” she timidly dared, “is my brother well?”

He awoke from his calculations and smiled at her. “He will be even better once he sees you.”

Marguerite was still afraid. “You promise, Chauvelin? Armand will be free?”

“I swear it.”

As much as he frightened her, Marguerite trusted him, and nodded, still frightened. The carriage stopped outside of the church, and Chauvelin helped Marguerite out of the carriage.

“Stay here a moment, my dear,” he instructed, leaving her with the squadron. “I need to talk business with Andre.” He walked off, speaking to the white mouse through the window. After what seemed an eternity, he returned, and took Marguerite’s arm in his, motioning to the soldiers to follow him into the church. Marguerite could hear the carriage drive off, and the driver of their own carriage was following.

Marguerite was shaking. Where was her brother? Where was her husband? And Monsieur Basil? Where was he? Chauvelin called out through the practically deserted church to where the troops that guarded the boy were; they were in the alcove above them, whilst the agent was in the sanctuary. He paused a moment. No answer. He went to the stairs and called again, ordering to bring the boy. This time there was noise of shuffling feet, and someone called “Yes, citizen!”

Armand was brought, his wrists tied behind his back, roughly pushed and pulled by four soldiers. Marguerite could hear him swearing, and she broke from Chauvelin’s side, crying out to her brother, racing to the stair way.

The boy was very tired, very worn. But even still, the fire that was classic to all Les St. Just burned within him, and he spit and snapped at his captors. Marguerite threw her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek, sobbing.

“Marguerite!” he exclaimed, wiggling his arms to try and free himself of his bonds so he might embrace her. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”

“Forgive me, Armand! I have paid a horrible price for your precious life.”

Armand looked up and saw Chauvelin who was smirking, glowing in his soon-to-be triumph.

“You!” he snarled. “You bastard! Marguerite, tell me you didn’t betray the Scarlet Pimpernel!”

She could not tell him yay or nay. She sobbed the only answer she could give him. “Armand, please forgive me!”

“No!” he cried. “No, Marguerite, you shouldn’t have come! Let me die as a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, not saved by his head!”

She turned from her brother, begging of Chauvelin: “Untie him.”

He shook his head evenly. “No.”

She clung to her brother, still crying. “I was so afraid for you. I didn’t know what to do.”

“Marguerite, oh, if you only knew!”

“Enough of this!” ordered Chauvelin. “Gag the boy, tie him up well. Marguerite, you come here.”

She did not release her brother, and was trying to keep the soldiers away from him.

“Show some compassion!” she begged.

“I swear, no harm will come to him, but I can’t have him making any more noise. Now, come here.”

Armand was glaring daggers at Chauvelin, and staring wide eyed at Marguerite. She gave him another kiss on the cheek, whispered some inaudible word of love to him, and released him, meekly walking back to Chauvelin. Armand glowered.

“You hate me, do you St. Just?” he asked, bemused as he wrapped an arm around Marguerite’s shoulder. She did not protest, and, instead, made an act of wrapping her arms around him. This was to try and keep her from trembling, though Chauvelin took it as a sign of love. Armand was too confused to even attempt to understand it.

“I hope you rot in hell,” he spat, just before the gag was stuffed in.

“Yes, well, that might be accomplished yet. But not tonight.”

Tonight, Chauvelin was on the verge of entering his heaven upon earth.

He quickly ordered that the boy be taken into a remote corner, that all the lights be extinguished. Everyone must remain absolutely silent, and he stepped into the shadows with Marguerite, invisible, wrapping a paw around her mouth. At this, she did struggle, and he hissed in her ear “I can’t risk a slip of the tongue. The excitement might get to you.” He was stronger than she was, it was pointless to fight; she gave up.

It might have been that hours passed by, or maybe it was only moments. Dawn still took her own sweet time in coming. And then, finally, it happened:

The door opened slowly, and three dark figures entered, careful, silent, making sure the coast was entirely clear.

Suddenly, the soldiers swarmed; the door was slammed shut, they encircled the trio, candles were lit. Marguerite was trembling, and Chauvelin let go of her, walking with a heavy step to the circle.

He was laughing, and the soldiers parted as he entered. Two had drawn swords, and one had drawn a pistol.

These three mice were, of course, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, Mr. Basil of Baker Street, and Sir Percy Blakeney.

A grin spread across Percy’s face as he saw Chauvelin, and he motioned for the other two to put down their weapons as he sheathed his sword.

“Lud, Chauvelin! But I was never expecting to see you! What a pleasant surprise!”

“Yes, indeed,” he replied, but did not switch to English. The Scarlet Pimpernel spoke fluent French. If the other’s did not, let them writhe in their ignorance. By the dark looks they were giving him, however, he gathered that they did. “It would seem, Sir Percy, that you have walked into my little trap.”

“Yes, dashed inconvenient, that,” he agreed. “Well, it seems I’ve taken a slight detour. Give me a moment, will you, and I’ll figure out a way around this impasse.”

“Forgive me, Blakeney, but I do not have the time to spare. Pressing matters demand my attention. I must deal with your execution as quickly as possible.”

These terrible words were too much for Marguerite, who cried out “No!” She rushed foreword, shoving at the soldiers.

“No, it’s fine,” ordered Chauvelin. “Let her pass, let her come.”

Percy’s ears quickly moved foreword. His whole countenance rose and fell in one swift movement. “Marguerite?” he asked. It was not in the same, playful, detached voice he’d used a moment before. His soul spoke through in that moment. Needless to say, all three were surprised to see her, though Basil not as much; he’d thought she might come.

“Sir Percy, may I introduce the woman who has so graciously aided me in capturing you: Your wife, Marguerite.” With that, he swept her into a kiss. Percy’s fist clenched, he looked disgusted, and moved for the hilt of his sword. Marguerite let the kiss last for a moment, still afraid she needed to placate him, before struggling, breaking it. Her eyes were wild, and she clearly wanted to run from Chauvelin to Percy.

“You bastard,” the Englishman snarled. “You take your black paws off of her this instant, or I swear, I’ll-”

“I’m afraid you’re not in the position to be making threats,” cut off Chauvelin, who still held Marguerite with one arm. She was crying, so afraid, not knowing what to do.

Percy calmed, smoothed his hair back. “Forgive me, I was in danger of loosing my temper. We in England would call that bad form. Now, Chauvelin, aren’t you going to give your foe a sporting chance? I propose a duel!”

Marguerite’s terror increased. “No, Percy, you mustn’t! Chauvelin is wonderful at fencing.”

He gazed at her with a mixture of wonder, hurt, and love. “Yes, and so am I.” He then looked back at his adversary. “Well, what do you say? I think it would be quite a match.”

Chauvelin thought it over carefully. Marguerite was not wrong; Chauvelin was a demon with a sword.

“Fine. Your two compatriots must remain tied in back with Armand.”

“So long as your soldiers stay out of the way.”

“But of course.”

“There, you see? All matters can be solved like gentlemen.”

With that, he gave a bow to his foe, and took a step back, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

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