“Don’t do this!” she begged, both of him, and her husband. Percy was staring at her in wonder, blinking. Was she trying to protect him, or the agent? Which was she in love with? Did she have so little faith in him?

Chauvelin looked hotly at her, and his very eyes forced her to release his hand and step back. “Go back with your brother, Marguerite.”

Anxious, she obeyed, wrapping her arms around her brother’s torso, though he could not embrace her as well. They slumped against the wall together, and sat, brother and sister. Her eyes were shut tightly, her face pressed against his chest, and she was trembling uncontrollably. Surprised, for Marguerite was generally so strong, he looked down at her.

“You are afraid for Percy?” he asked. She nodded, almost imperceptibly.

“Oh, Dieu, Armand!” she cried. “Chauvelin’s going to kill him!”

Armand was laughing, which startled Marguerite. How could he laugh at a time like this? “You think Chauvelin could ever possibly beat Percy? Lord, Marguerite, what a joke!”

“It is not a joke! It is a serious matter! You do not know Chauvelin so well as I do; he is a skilled swordsman!”

“And so is Percy!”

Still Marguerite retained her doubts.

“Really, soeur, he is! Look!”

Gaining courage, Marguerite looked up. The sight was shocking to her, the sound of clashing steel filling the air, light flashing off the swords. Chauvelin was good, but Percy might even be considered better. He was giving the agent quite a run for his money, and the fervor with which Blakeney fought had clearly taken him by surprise. He’d handled the situation too lightly, perhaps? He decided he needed to put all of his focus foreword in order to defeat this British Turkey, to make up for lost time.

As though to disarm him, the clever agent asked “So, you think you’re quite the hero, don’t you?”

“That is not my place to say,” Percy retaliated, effortlessly blocking and returning the blows as they fell.

“You think everyone loves you?”

“Not at all.” Percy took one great risk; he looked up at Marguerite. Under normal circumstances, he would have paused a moment to drown at the mere sight of her, but all of his instincts cried “On your feet, man!” That is why he spared only a glance. It was enough for Chauvelin to gain a small edge, but he was having a hard time focusing now. He hated that Percy had the right to look at Marguerite and love her, merely because he’d kidnapped her from France. Chauvelin did not have that right, he was not her husband. Well, he’d soon fix that. “However, I think Marguerite loves me.”

With a passionate cry, Chauvelin brought the blade quickly down, and Percy was only just able to block it, and avoid the other blow. He was startled by the sudden attack, and both were struggling to gain control of the fight.

“Yes,” snarled Chauvelin. “And such a sweet lover she is. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”

Blakeney laughed, dancing across the floor. “It’s a situation I intend to remedy, I assure you.”

“Please, not on my account. It’s nothing to me if you never know.”

“It’s not on your account.”

“Well, then.”

Thus ended the banter. The only sound that escaped their throats now were cries and grunts, primordial and buried in centuries of instinct. The fight dragged on, they grew tired. Their clothes, already messy, were in violent disarray. It was, finally, that Chauvelin knocked the sword from Percy’s hand, laughing a terrible laugh, raising his own weapon and keeping the edge at Blakeney’s chest. Marguerite cried out, and tore out of her brother’s embrace, to her husband.

Chauvelin was backing him up, so that Percy was finally against the wall. He sat down, watching Chauvelin evenly, expectantly. “You there!” the agent called to a few soldiers. “Tie up his men, put them with the traitor, St. Just, then bring them all over here and put them next to their leader.”

Basil was scowling as they approached, and Andrew had raised his fists, watching Percy warily. A look from the leader told him everything he needed to know; he put his fists down and allowed himself to be tied. Basil followed suit.

The three prisoners were marched next to the most valuable one of all, and ordered to sit. Marguerite stood at the side, trembling, watching.

“Well, well, well. What have we here? Mr. Basil of Baker street, what a privilege! And Sir Andrew Ffoulkes! There’s a lady in Paris who’s just dying to meet you.”

One of the soldiers snickered. “The lucky devils are going to be kissed by Madame Guillotine.” The rest of the squadron burst out laughing as well.

“But, you, Sir Percy?” the agent added, turning back to his quarry. “Now, if you stay with them, they might escape. In fact, taking you to Paris has it’s dangers. You’re far too crafty to leave to chance.”

“Thank you, Chauvelin!” he said, smiling, nodding his head, since he was not standing and could not give a full bow.

“That is why I’m going to kill you here.”

“No!” Marguerite screamed. Hardly knowing what she was doing, she raced to her husband, flinging herself in front of him, into his arms. “No!” she repeated, staring wildly up at Chauvelin, her arms around her husband’s neck, while his were around her waist.

Percy was staring at Marguerite with such profound surprise it took him moments to try and decide what to say. He blinked, he gapped. His heart was soaring; he was holding Marguerite. What joys did heaven bless him with! Chauvelin was also surprised, seeing his shinning star act as wall between her husband and his sword. She was nearly breathless, her eyes were wild; she looked terribly pretty, almost too much for the agent to stand. He was caught by a sudden wave, and struggling to over come it.

“For God’s sake, release him,” she finally managed.

Chauvelin stoutly refused. “He dies today.”

“Show some pity!” she begged.

“It’s too late for that, Marguerite.”

“Name your price!” she cried. “Keep me here in France, fine. Kill me here and now, good-”

“No!” Percy responded to that, clutching her to him.

“-But please, Chauvelin! Don’t kill him! If you ever loved me, you will let him go.”

Marguerite knew how to play her cards, and surprised both adversaries by her latest move. Percy noted that she had said similar words to him at their terrible quarrel: “If you really love me, you’ll believe what I tell you.” The words had sent a shaft of bitter hatred into Blakeney, but to Chauvelin they were ambrosia. A chance to prove that he adored her, worshiped her! He weighed it out carefully, gazing at her. Percy looked from Marguerite, who was staring Chauvelin down, to the agent, who was swimming in her eyes. Finally, the agent sheathed his sword, and looked sadly at Marguerite, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry,” he replied. “I just can’t do that.”

“Please!” she cried again, sobbing, tightly gripping her husband.

“Fair is fair, Chauvelin,” agreed Percy flippantly, seeming nonchalant about the death sentence. “Come now, Marguerite, no need for such tears! I’ll go with head held high on two conditions, Citizen Chauvelin.”

Chauvelin raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh, really? The hostage is to demand the terms?”

“Call it a last request,” agreed Blakeney. “One, my wife and her brother go free. Two, Mr. Basil and Sir Ffoulkes are given safe passage back to England.”

Chauvelin laughed. “You must be a bigger fool than I imagined! Marguerite will stay with me, quite safe.”

“Safe in France?” asked Percy. “Isn’t that some sort of oxy moron?”

Chauvelin glared, but continued unperturbed. “Armand is a traitor to the Republic, and will die as such.”

“No!” cried Marguerite again, still crying.

“Messieurs Basil and Ffoulkes will die as accomplices to the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

“Now, one part of that I must protest,” argued Blakeney. “You promised Marguerite that her brother would go free once you had the Pimpernel. Why should the arrangement change just because he’s her husband?”

Chauvelin mused over this for a moment. “He’s a turncoat, and deserves a turncoat’s death.”

“Maybe so, but you would be a turncoat if you went back on your word.”

Chauvelin sighed. “Fine. The boy will live, but will probably be exiled. You, however, will die this morning.”

“No!” Marguerite resiliently cried again, grasping him. “Percy, no, I love you!”

The words filled both souls to the brim was joyous happiness, and she cried as he kissed her passionately. “I love you!” Blakeney echoed. “Oh, God, I love you!”

“Enough of this,” snarled Chauvelin, jealousy oozing out of every pore. “Pull them apart, separate them!” The soldiers snapped to his bidding, pulling the Scarlet Pimpernel away from the only woman he had every loved, while Marguerite clung to his paw.

“Don’t go!” she begged, “Please, don’t leave me, when I’ve only just found you!”

Percy looked back at her, smiling sadly. “Marguerite, I’m not going anywhere. I will be with you for as long as you live.”

“Enough!” shouted Citizen Chauvelin. “Take him outside and shoot him!”

The soldiers grunted, and lead him to the door, and he did not look back. Marguerite, still sobbing, struggled to her feet. Her legs shook beneath her as she launched herself at the door. However, the strong arms of Chauvelin caught her, and held the wriggling woman to him.

“No, no, no, Marguerite. You don’t want to be out there.”

“Let me die with him!”

“I can’t do that, because then I would die as well. I would die of a broken heart.” He paused, relishing in the feel and shape of her body, breathing in her perfume. He was in paradise. He sighed, whispering “My God, am I dreaming? You can’t be real.”

Marguerite was shaking, trembling, wriggling. Anything to be out of that monster’s arms! Four years ago, she would have been shaking in excitement at his touch. Now she could only feel this uncomfortable disgust.

“Ready!” the captain shouted, and Marguerite could hear them raise their guns. She writhed more still, while Chauvelin held her tighter still.

“Aim!”

A moment of terror swept over Marguerite, and in that terror, she found her strength. She burst from her captor's arms, racing to the door.

“Fire!”

BANG!

Marguerite stood stalk still for a moment, before she suddenly started to faint. Startled, Chauvelin did not move for a moment before racing foreword and catching her in his arms as she fell. In all the years he’d known her, he had never seen Marguerite faint. She was made of sterner stuff.

Basil had blanched, slumped against the wall. Armand’s eyes had tripled in size. Andrew remained far more calm, glaring hot daggers at the soldiers in the room.

Marguerite had been reduced to a sobbing mass, huddled in the agent’s embrace. He lifted her, carrying her away from the door, and what was outside that door. Her mind receded into itself, so that it was only her body that remained conscious, and it responded as instinct dictated. To keep herself from falling, she wrapped her arms around his neck as she cried, whilst under normal circumstances she would not let him pick her up.

“Forgive me,” he begged, holding her tenderly, as though he was afraid a less gentle handling would break her. “Oh, please forgive me, Marguerite! I never wanted to hurt you. But you understand, don’t you? Of course you do, we understand each other. We always did. I had to do it, Marguerite. For France, for you. It had to be done.” And he kissed her passionately, close to tears himself because he had made her cry. Chauvelin was much like Percy in that he could not stand to see Marguerite cry. He worshiped her as he held her, and as he kissed her. Since it was only her body that could respond to anything, she kissed him in return, but only because her body craved some sort of comfort. It craved a comforting touch and gentle caress. And so, her body computed simply: Someone is kissing you. Kiss back. It didn’t matter who delivered the kiss, just so long as the passion was felt, and the odd sort of pain was somehow pushed to the background. Drowning in physical pleasures was the only way her body knew to banish emotional pain.

“Wait,” he whispered to her. “I know it’s hard, but I have work I must finish, and then I will devote all of my time to you, alright?”

Marguerite had given up. She had failed in rescuing her husband, so she had to cling to the hope of saving her brother. “Armand?” she asked between sobs, shaking and starting to hyperventilate a little as she cried.

“Shh…..” Chauvelin soothed, kissing her and then pressing a finger to her rosy lips. “Calm down, it’s alright. Breath, that’s it.” He sank down to the cold stone with her, an arm wrapped around her dainty shoulders, trying to help her breath properly. “Shhh….. Just relax, now. Everything will be alright.”

Marguerite’s breathing pattern was still irregular, but she was much more in control of herself now. “Armand?” she asked again.

“I’ll make sure he’s safe,” promised the black creature, who loved her blindly.

“What will you do?”

“I’ll have him smuggled into Belgium.”

Marguerite began to shake again, and he pressed her to him to try and steady her. “I will never see him again!” She was still sobbing.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. At the moment, I can’t make any guaranties for either option. Now, please, be a good girl and just stay here. Calm down. I’m going to finish up here, and then I’ll be here to do your bidding. We’ll go back to Paris, I’ll finish up the report, send for Fluerette, and then we’ll take a nice, long holiday at the coast. We’ll forget all of this, and just remember the good times, and be happy again. Alright? Will you be alright?”

Marguerite hadn’t a choice. She nodded. Chauvelin sprang into action, leaving her side while she shivered and sobbed. He selected a squadron, and got to work ordering them about.

“You all go into town and inform Citizen Madeline-” here he spoke of Andre “-of what has happened. Have him send back my carriage and order a tumbrel. You will accompany the hostages, who will be in the tumbrel, to Paris. He will follow, and Citizen St. Just and I will start for Paris immediately.”

“That’s all well and good, Chauvelin,” said a voice from the door way, “but I simply cannot have you abduct my wife like that.”

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