Marguerite was still crying, tightly clutching the kerchief. “I beg of you, monsieur, you are my only hope to save my brother! What must I do to convince you? I will pay you more handsomely than you could ever imagine. Just name your price!”

Basil stood from the chair, disgusted at the very idea of tracking down the enigma. “You could make it as much money as your husband owns, and I still would not be interested.”

Boldly, the French mouse snatched up his brown paw. “Please, Monsieur Basil! I would do anything to save my brother.”

The detective quickly snatched his hand away, scowling. “Then you’d best do it alone.”

Alone. Marguerite was always alone. Tears were still streaming down her cheeks, though she was managing to keep herself under control.

“Lady Blakeney,” announced the great mouse detective boldly, “what you suggest is nothing less than treason. I am quite fond of my neck, and if you value your own, I would advise you this: Give up, madame. There is not a soul that would help you find the Scarlet Pimpernel. Convince your French friend of this, unless he is completely stupid.”

What Basil had heard of Lady Blakeney’s cleverness had not been an exaggeration. Desperately, she played the best card she knew; pride. She’d never met a man that didn’t fall victim to it.

“I was told this was the address of the great mouse detective. The smartest mouse in England, except for maybe this Pimpernel. I was also told that he was very brave. Pardon moi, monsieur, for I seem to have stumbled into the wrong flat, and into that of a coward. Would you please point me in the right direction?”

The detective went rigid. “Speak plainly,” he snarled.

Boldly, Marguerite stood and faced her last hope. “If you are too much of a coward to save a beloved brother’s life, tell me now! I shall go and beg Chauvelin of some other way to save Armand.”

“I am no coward,” the other seethed. Dawson worriedly watched the two as they glared daggers at each other, each waiting for the next move to be made; it might very well determine who would win the game.

“Then prove it to me!” she cried. “If you are who you say you are, you could find the Scarlet Pimpernel’s identity. Or, better yet, you could help me save my brother without paying that awful price; I beg of you once more, monsieur: Help me find the Scarlet Pimpernel, or at least help me to outsmart Chauvelin, as hard as a task that may be.”

Basil took in a deep breath, still glaring. “You give your Chauvelin a bit too much credit. I do not doubt that I could outsmart him.”

“He is not my Chauvelin,” she charged. “I beg of you, do not make him so. He already-” She stopped the sentence, deeming it more prudent to keep silent on whatever matter she would have tossed into the air. Basil’s eyes narrowed, half wanting to press the incident. But a look on the young woman’s face clearly stated that she would not speak on whatever the matter was.

“Alright, Lady Blakeney. Since you seem to doubt my courage, I will prove you false; I will help you to find the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel, as well as to outsmart this Monsieur Chauvelin. And that is how I will save your brother.”

Lady Blakeney’s face glowed. “Oh, thank you, Monsieur Basil! You have no idea how wonderful that news is!” She seemed as if part of a great weight had lifted off her delicate shoulders. Hope was in sight. Armand could be saved!

The detective brushed her rejoicing aside. “Yes, yes, I’m sure. Now, to business: You will need to do your part and give me whatever information you can about the ambassador. He attends balls and parties?”

“Yes, so that he may keep up appearances. He must keep French and British relations as smooth as possible when he is not hunting for the Pimpernel. He also goes to hear gossip and strain the truth from the fiction. And….” Here she sighed, whispering the next few words. “To see me. He is quite insistent that I can do him a great deal of help. I’ve taken to pretending to be ill when he comes to visit me at Blakeney Manor. Of course, he’s caught on. I will need to find a new excuse soon, or else he’ll take to reminding me of the dangerous situation my brother is in.”

Handing her the crumpled grey hat, Basil said “I believe it is time you got going ‘Ms. Davenport.’ And be sure to write me with information on Chauvelin as soon as possible, including the next ball you both plan to be attending. Doubtless he’ll want to meet with you.”

“Yes, of course, thank you mon- I mean, thank you very much Mr. Basil. I ‘ope you enjoy you’re package.” Dawson showed her to the door, and she left the flat as quickly as she could, making sure no one watched her.

The letter began thusly:

“Dear Mr. Basil,

I am writing to thank you for the help you gave my cousin, Jeremy, during your last case. We were all quite relieved when…..”

It went on in a completely false story for a full two page before the real contents of the letter truly began.

“There. Now, in case this letter had stumbled into the wrong paws before reaching you, monsieur, I can rest assured. No one but Chauvelin would have bothered to read past the first page, and I know that only one of his lackeys will have read this; Monsieur Chauvelin is away in France for a week, so I have a slight reprieve from his habitual visits.

“Here is the information you requested, Monsieur Basil. I will ask that you write me back at the address I will print at the bottom of this letter once you have studied it’s contents. And now, here is a faithful narrative of all I can tell you of Monsieur the Ambassador:

“He is thirty years old, and a widower. His only surviving family is his five year old daughter, whom I have had the pleasure of meeting only twice. When he lives in Paris, he keeps her with a faithful old nurse in Brittany, not wanting to subject her to the horrors of the revolution at such an early age. Through ways of my own, I have found out that she is the reason he is traveling back to France: He does not want her in a completely different country when he can’t be there to make sure she is protected. Thusly, he is bringing her back with him to England, and shall have returned by next Wednesday.

“He was once le Marquis de Chauvelin, but renounced his title in favor of becoming an agent of the French Republic. He has climbed through the ranks with alarming speed, and is now their most trusted and successful agent.

“Going back to the matters of his family, they were all fodder for Madame Guillotine. The child’s name is Fluerette, and the mother died giving birth to her.

“That is really all I can tell you. Monsieur Chauvelin is an enigma, and tells few secrets, though I have been fortunate enough to hear more than most do.

“He will be attending Lord Digby’s ball next Friday, as will I. If there is someway you and your associate can sneak in as well, please write back with all haste! My husband shall be attending as well, but if we need to speak, I will find some way for us to meet in secret. Many thanks again, monsieur.

“Sincerely,

“Lady Marguerite Blakeney.”

After finishing the letter, Basil handed it to the doctor to read while the detective smoked his pipe, lost in thought. The doctor had snorted in slight surprise upon reading that the somewhat frightening ambassador had a daughter.

“Who would believe such a dark creature could father a child? I’m sure it’s as blood thirsty as the father.”

“On the contrary, my dear Dawson,” said Basil slowly, begin to formulate things in his mind. “He strikes me as the kind who would dote upon a child.”

Puzzled, Dawson looked up from the letter at his partner. “And why is that?”

“Think about it; he probably did not become a devotee of the Republic simply because of the peasantry’s abuses. That may have played a part, but if that had been the sole reason, he would have been a much more quiet supporter and would have kept his title until blades started falling. No, he was disgusted, and wanted a better world. And for whom? Certainly not the lower class, and his own world was quite comfortable. So, that leaves the last conclusion; he has strong ideals and wants to show the child those ideals in action, and create a better world because he loves his child. And that,” he cried, springing from the chair, “is where his leverage point is. You see, Doctor, it becomes quite easy to defeat a foe once you understand his character. Once an understanding is accomplished, weaknesses are easily discovered. Once weaknesses are discovered, the enemy that previously terrified and intimidated becomes laughable and is easily defeated.”

The detective gave a slightly insane, triumphant laugh. No doubt all detectives are just a little insane. It is quite healthy for the profession.

“Then you know how to defeat this Chauvelin fellow already?” asked Dawson.

“No, no, not yet. That shall be soon and easily accomplished. But I must study this French specimen at a closer range. So, my friend, you and I shall be attending a ball!”

The doctor raised an eyebrow and asked “And how do you propose we get in? I highly doubt we’ve been invited.”

“We shall go as what no one suspects or watches; Servants. Thusly, we’ll move more freely about. Citizen Chauvelin will not be wasting his time with them, I believe. Yes, it’s a marvelous plan.” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, a mischievous glint in his green eyes. “Good night, Dawson. I must write a letter to Lady Blakeney at once, and then I must finalize the details of the plot.” With that, he whisked himself out of the room, muttering to himself little details that sprang up in his mind.

The mouse-child’s deep, brown eyes softly fluttered open. Her fur was brown with definitive red under tones, and she wore a green dress. Indeed, the mouse looked angelic as she sweetly awoke, sitting up as the coach lurched along the road.

With a yawn, the sweet little child sat straight up and blinked again. Smiling, she said “Bonsoir, papa.”

The black figure that sat across from Fluerette did not look the least bit imposing. He was at his most tender, pale, light blue eyes softly shimmering as he gazed upon his tiny angel. His smile was full of that pure, intense bond that is shared between parent and progeny. Indeed, the ambassador was a lamb, not his normal lion self.

“Ah,” Chauvelin corrected the girl. “We must practicee our Engleesh. We must speak Engleesh for now, my sweet.” This was said in English, but with a thick French accent. Much thicker than Madame Blakeney’s. Still, it was decipherable, and his bright little daughter was determined to please her father; she would try her best.

“Yes, papa,” she said obediently, yawning again.

“I know it ees late, my dear, but try and stay awake. Just a few moments more.”

With a tired nod, Fluerette yawned again, her brown eyes half way closed as she struggled to do as her father asked. She used to see her papa only a few times a month, and less when work was very busy. Still, she adored him, and had constantly asked to be allowed to go to Paris with him. He’d always refused, though he refused the child so little. Still, at least she would be able to be with him in London, though he had warned her; the English tended to be very stupid, and that she must be sweet and patient with them. They were nothing to the French.

Sometimes, when papa had visited Brittany and spent a few days there, he would bring a friend or coworker from Paris for Fluerette to meet. If his daughter liked them, he prized them as very dear friends indeed. One he’d even said she could see again.

“Papa,” she asked sleepily, making conversation to keep awake, “you promised I could see Mademoiselle St. Just again once we got to London. When will I get to see her?”

The tall mouse had been silently looking out the window, watching the lights blur past, the misty rain splattering against the window. He had loved summer rains in Paris. It felt as though the whole city were being cleaned of the blood shed. But blood was necessary to purge the old regime and form new beginnings. He had not been the only one to love the rain. So had-

It was as he had been thinking about this when his beloved child asked the question about Lady Blakeney. He turned his head to face her, smiling, though still keeping his chin resting on his fist. “Within a week or two. I shall be attendeeng a party where she will be; I’ll be sure to ask if you can veseet.” He liked the idea of Fluerette spending time with Marguerite. The two looked like something out of a painting when put together. They looked so alike that he could almost pretend that they were mother and daughter. What a happy scene it made…..

If Marguerite could be brought back to the truth, rid of this terrible brainwashing that English fop had done to her, than he’d be more than willing to let Fluerette be with Citizen St. Just whenever she could be. If Marguerite could remember where her loyalties truly lied, then she would be an excellent influence on the girl. Well, all that in time. He need only be patient. Soon, he promised himself, soon.

“Will I be attending the party?” she asked, rubbing her sleepy eyes.

With a laugh, he replied “I am afraid eet ees past your bedtime. You would not enjoy eet, een any case.”

“I would be very well behaved,” the pretty thing pouted.

Chauvelin laughed again. “I do not doubt eet, my dear. You are so well behaved all of thee time. But thee inveetation did not eextend to leetle girls. I apologize.”

The sweet child nodded. When papa said something could not be so, it simply couldn’t. The same was true for what he said could be so. With another yawn, she replied “As long as you promise I can see Mademoiselle St. Just again.”

“I promisee,” he agreed, and caught her as she fell foreword from her seat as the coach came to a sudden stop. “Ah. I see we are here. Come, Fluerette.” With that, the opened the door and helped his darling angel to climb down as an attendant mouse helped with the bags, though the ambassador tried to do it himself. It would not do for Fluerette to get conflicting signals about equality, and that had been his only fear in bringing her to England; little children could be very hard to explain things to. Despite his protests, another serving mouse – one he recognized from the time he’d spent inside the large house the English provided him with for his stay – snatched up the bags, quickly carrying them inside. He sighed, frustrated, and decided to merely carry his favorite bundle: Fluerette, who was very light weight.

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