Pretending to feel faint, she excused herself to a chair in the most remote corner of the room, asking to simply be left alone for a few moments. Basil, still in his clever disguise, made his way over with a tray of wine glasses.

“Some wine to help the lady’s nerves?” he asked. Smiling, she graciously took one of the glasses from the tray.

“Chauvelin’s here. Should I try and talk with him?”

She asked the question softly, but it said it in a way as though to be asking some trivial matter, gesturing as though about the weather.

“If you can, then yes. I’ll try and listen in.”

Marguerite drank some of the wine, nodding and smiling as gaily as ever before, playing the game of pretend to perfection. The detective hurried off to continue his half of the game, and after a few moments, Lady Blakeney stood. Smiling, she walked to the table where Chauvelin sat, trying to seem interested in the conversation he had going up with Colonel Danvers.

“Bonsoir, mon ami, it has been a long time!” she exclaimed, taking a seat at the table, surprising the ambassador. “Oh, pardon me, Colonel, have I interrupted your conversation?”

“No, of course not,” the French mouse assured hastily, turning in his chair to get a better view of the woman. For a few moments, the two chatted idly, Colonel Danvers adding bits and pieces now and then, but the two kept on slipping off into French, since they were so used to speaking to each other in it, and Danvers had never been proficient in French. He quickly grew bored, and excused himself to speak with another mouse. Seeing his moment of opportunity, Basil carefully slinked up to the pair, being as inconspicuous as possible, able to hear their conversation fairly well, and understand it perfectly, though it was in French.

“I am to understand, then,” the black one said, “that you are resolved in helping your brother?”

“You left me little choice,” the auburn one mournfully responded.

The ambassador smirked, chuckled slightly. “That was the idea, yes.”

“Chauvelin, you have power in France; you could save my brother without the Scarlet Pimpernel’s head.” It was a plea, the last throws of death.

“Not without placing myself under considerable suspicion. Can’t you just see it? ‘Please, Citizen Robspierre, I would like the traitor Armand St. Just released from prison, free of all charges laid at his door.’ And do you know how he’d respond? If he were feeling charitable, or at least curious, the answer would be ‘Citizen Chauvelin, have you quite lost your senses?’ And since I probably have, I would reply ‘Not at all, Citizen. It’s just that Citizen St. Just, now known as Lady Blakeney, loves her brother; she asks this of an old friend, so how can I refuse?’ He would either laugh right in my face, or have me sent to an insane asylum!”

“You wouldn’t ask him like that!” she cried, frustrated. “You’re only saying these things to upset me.”

Delicately, he covered her red brown paw with his own ebony one. “I hate to see you upset,” he whispered, his pale eyes focused on her face in a look that was akin to…. Akin to love, perhaps? Obsession? A means to an end? Seduction? Friendship? Only the two of them could answer for sure, and even the great mouse detective could only guess from his vantage point.

The dark creature continued: “Changing the subject, I think you might be interested to know that I have brought-”

“Fluerette, I know,” she responded, wanting to draw her paw away, but knowing that all sorts of sacrifices – small, as well as large – must be made to keep the ambassador appeased, keep him in a position where he was willing to help. Telling all truth, she added “She is a lovely little girl.”

“She asked about you.”

Marguerite smiled, laughed slightly. “What did she ask? How has she been?”

“She asked if she would be able to see you again. I told her that I sincerely hoped so. She is doing well. Perhaps a bit lonely, but that is the case with only children….”

Lady Blakeney went silent, not liking the turn the conversation had taken; he was trying to put her into a position of admitting how unhappy she was in her marriage, how much she missed Paris, and the old days. He was trying to put her in a spot of weakness. Well, she just couldn’t let it work.

“I do not think now is the time or the place to speak of what I truly came over here to talk about.”

“Agreed, so let us pick a time and a place.”

“Next week, at-”

“No.”

Confused, she looked up at him – the first time in several minutes. “No?”

“No,” he repeated. “We shall talk tonight.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“But….Chauvelin, how on earth-”

“Outside, in the garden,” he said, motioning faintly towards the door to a reasonably sized garden.

“There are already people out there…” she whispered, uncomfortable at the idea of being secluded anywhere with this mouse.

“It’s a large garden, and there are very few people out there; most are inside. We shall find seclusion, I believe.”

“Might I beg you to reconsider next week?” she pleaded.

He smiled – both a pitying and ruthless smile. “You may, but I won’t.”

She sighed, resigning herself to the facts; this monster had Armand, and thusly, had her on a leash. To keep her brother safe, she would have to do absolutely everything he asked of her. Armand’s neck was too precious to leave to chance. “What ever you wish,” she agreed.

“I’m so glad you see with reason, my dear. Now we have our place, let us set our time.”

Basil glanced at the large clock on the other wall: Ten thirty.

“Eleven sounds reasonable,” he decided.

“Of course, Chauvelin,” she agreed in a whisper, not daring to disagree. He smiled again, running his thumb across her paw.

“We always did agree on things, you and I.” He looked straight at her, but she could not face him. Instead, she had her head turned away, tears of fright and unhappiness threatening to cloud her vision. Slightly dejected that she would not look at him, though able to tell she knew who was in charge of the situation, he decided to wrap things up. “I trust you’ve gathered at least a little knowledge of the Pimpernel. If not, here’s your perfect opportunity. Go,” he instructed. “Find what you can to save your brother, and I shall meet you in the garden at eleven.”

“But what if I cannot find anything tonight!” she begged.

“Pray that you do. But do not worry, Lady Blakeney! I am not so cruel! You still have a few months, at most, to find him for me. I will not ask you to do what most find impossible in a single night! That would not be fair.”

“Merci….” She sighed, placing a delicate paw to her cheek and massaging her temple briefly. “The garden,” she confirmed. “Eleven.”

“You will be there?” “Whatever you say, Chauvelin.”

“Good. Now go. The other guests have begun to miss their shinning star.”

With that, he sent her off, smiling and relaxing in the chair, content to watch her, while Basil watched him, entrusting that Marguerite could not get into too much trouble within a half hour; Dawson would manage.

As the minutes ticked by, both the parties under scrutiny engaged in separate conversations of politics, philosophy, art, all the polite, easy topics. But what the detective noticed above all was that Lady Blakeney refused to look in the direction of the ambassador, no matter where he was.

“She’s far more terrified of him than she’s letting on…..” thought Basil, which meant only one thing to him: She was hiding something. Could women simply never do as told and reveal all? Was she so willing to help her brother, yet not understand that he needed all the information she could give to him?

What he also noted is, that while Marguerite never looked at Chauvelin, Chauvelin was constantly stealing looks at Marguerite. Should the conversation he held lapse for the tiniest instant, his eyes were upon the French woman, as though she were a goddess. It seemed ever clearer to Basil that Lady Blakeney’s letter telling all there was to tell of the ambassador had not truly told all.

And whilst Basil’s mind was more readily occupied by trying to fathom how to out maneuver the accredited agent without finding out who the Scarlet Pimpernel was, his train of thought kept coming back to the agent himself; eventually, he gave up trying to force his mind onto the correct path. It would do no good in any case, since there was information still unfound. If he kept on being distracted by the French man, then something was clearly telling him that he needed more scrutiny.

But for all his observations, the black creature gave away no sign of emotion what so ever. Nay, he seemed slightly bored, but that was all. Except for his eyes, which continued to follow Marguerite across the room. Basil rolled his own eyes in disgust; men became so easily distracted by women, that it was almost an insult to the race of mice’s intelligence. He counted himself among the lucky few that did not become bitten by the mosquito of love, doomed to forever spend his days sighing and sorrowing over some creature that could not even tell the truth when life was on the line.

The bell struck a quarter till. He decided that he’d better sneak out to the garden before his two subjects of study did. This way he could hear them better. He scurried out the door, silent, perceiving himself unnoticed. The grounds were still wet from the heavy rain storm that had recently set in, though cleared early that morning. It was reasonably warm, considering that it was June, and he settled himself into a bush, grumbling when a renegade twig pocked his side painfully. After several minutes of uncomfortable waiting, his patience was rewarded.

The sound of the firm step of Citizen Chauvelin faintly echoed in the deserted garden, most having disappeared inside. He was humming a tune, evidently quite pleased with himself, pausing by a bush of roses, not ten feet from the hidden detective. He tapped the beat with a paw against his leg, quite willing to wait for Lady Blakeney to creep outside. The bell struck eleven, and still the two waited. Time passed by, and it was almost ten after when the auburn mouse was finally able to race out to the garden.

“Ah, bonsoir, ma cherie,” greeted the ambassador quietly, in a splendid mood with his success. Taking her delicate paw, he kissed it and asked “It is quite a lovely evening, is it not?”

She ignored both these things, and quickly asked “Is Armand alright?”

The agent chose to not answer that, asking “Did you find anything?”

“Nothing more than the usual gossip, and I can promise you that all of that was false. But please, Chauvelin; How is my brother?”

Still the ebony mouse did not answer. “But I do sincerely hope that you have been taking steps to finding this troublesome Englishmen.”

Frustrated, she cried out, flinging her hands into the air. “What is it you want of me?” she begged, on the verge of tears. “I cannot give you the Pimpernel. Lord knows I have been trying, but I simply cannot do it! Name a different price, any one in the world! Money? No, you have no use for that, you don’t care about that…..”

“I am flattered,” he said wryly, “that you know me so well.”

“What do you love?” she asked herself. “Do you love the Republic? Yes, but I don’t think that’s what you want….” Now it was she who was toying with him, playing a seductive game to get him to change his mind.

“You love your daughter. What is it you want? Do you want me to play mother to your child, is that it?” She stepped closer to him, seizing his black paw. “Say the word, I’ll do it. I’ll do it gladly.”

Now the true challenge and test of the game began; “Is it me that you want?” She stepped close enough to him so that there was not even so much as an inch betwixt them. He was staring down at her, immobile, quite surprised, not sure what to do with this sudden change in the situation. He’d fallen prey to the actress’ ploy. Carefully, she wrapped his arms around her slim figure, staring up at his pale blue eyes, waiting for the answer. “Well, here I am. Anything you want in the whole world but the price you ask of me now. I could never live with myself if I killed another mouse. Please, Chauvelin, name your price. Any of the prizes I’ve listed would be enjoyable ones to have.”

Floundering, the agent was slowly working through his surprised, muddled senses. His soul said “Yes!” but his discipline refused with a stern “No!” He laughed slightly, sighing and holding her in the arms she’d wrapped about herself for a moment.

“How tempting you are,” he responded with a wry little laugh, more to strengthen his conviction than at finding anything amusing. “How hard it is for me to refuse. The tempting fruit of the garden of Eden, no?”

“Don’t refuse!” she begged, not moving from the scandalous spot she’d put herself in. Should anyone catch them, it would be far worse than anything anyone would have ever guessed; both she and Percy would be humiliated, and she would be sent back to France, divorced, and disgraced. So be it! Let this one statement alone ring loud and clear in their detached English ways: Marguerite would take what ever steps necessary to save her brother. Could they really find fault with her for that? If they could, she considered them no better than heartless, unfeeling devils. Armand was more like a father to her than a brother. She had to do whatever she could for him.

Chauvelin took his arms from around the fetching creature, though he kept a hold on her delicate paw, reluctant still. He stepped back, but continued to hold the red brown paw. “For a moment, it almost…..” He stopped his sentence, for she had her head turned away, not looking at him once more. He stiffened, and coldly added “But then, you do not like to think of Paris, do you?”

She looked back up at him, taking a step closer to him, though he did not move back. “Please, Chauvelin!” she begged once more.

“No, merci, though it is tempting.”

She cried aloud as though she had been physically hurt – the word “no,” had wounded her. She began to cry again, and the French mouse clucked his tongue, taking a handkerchief from his pocket.

“There now,” he soothed, dabbing at her lovely blue eyes. “There is no need for such tears, ma cherie. Your brother is safe. His sister is keeping him safe.” The poor woman was shaking from head to foot, terrified at whatever danger awaited her poor Armand. Chauvelin added “He’s not even been arrested yet,” as though by a way of comforting her.

“And can you promise that-”

He interrupted her, holding a hand up, turning swiftly on his heels; a noise had distracted him. It had been the sound of a small branch breaking under the weight of something heavy, and the noise that followed had sounded similar to a muffled “Oof!”

Though he had managed to scramble into thicker cover inside of the shrub, Basil had fallen from the bush.

Next Chapter