Sir Percy Blakeney was engaged in one of his favorite activities: Teasing Citizen Chauvelin. Indeed, the man was searching around the dinning room with a hungry look, since nearly half of the guests were in there, engaged in games of cards, or simply being entertained by Sir Percy.

Marguerite, not seated far from either of the two adversaries, bit her lip. She was tempted to rescue Chauvelin from the onslaught of the foppish gentleman, but she could not very well escape a few curious glances if she did. Still, Armand was worth the glances, and Chauvelin needed to be appeased, be kept happy.

“Percy….” She began, reluctant to do anything at all.

“Is that true, sir?” the Prince of Wales asked, surprised.

“Eet ees thee duty, Your Highness, of all loyal citizens of thee Republic to be always on guard against thee scoundrel. I could not say, either way, eef eet ees my sole duty.”

“Some of us think the Pimpernel a hero!”

Marguerite, stunned, turned and stared at her friend Suzanne de Tournay. It was the most outlandish thing she’d ever said, considering that Suzanne was generally as meek as and quiet as an angel. Chauvelin and Mademoiselle de Tournay had been exchanging minor blows all evening, and the ambassador was now glaring at her with a cold sort of furry, which certainly did make the young mouse back down. Nervously, she squeezed Sir Andrew Ffoulkes’ hand, who was seated next to her, as he usually was – he was smitten with her.

“You mistake me, Mademoiselle de Tournay; I said all those loyal to-”

“Percy,” Marguerite broke in, thinking she might soon rip her hair out if these things continued, “didn’t you write that little ballad about the Scarlet Pimpernel?”

“Indeed I did! Ah, what a lovely little poem it was, too!”

There were several enthusiastic cries akin to “Oh, do read it, Percy!” but modestly, he responded “Lord, no, I couldn’t possibly…..Well, if you do insist!”

Coughing, Lord Blakeney rose himself up to his full height, pausing to try and remember the little ditty.

“The Scarlet Pimpernel, by Sir Percy Blakeney, baronet.

“They seek him here/ They seek him there/ Those Frenchies seek him everywhere/ Is he in Heaven?/ Or is he in Hell?/ That demmed elusive Pimpernel.”

The room burst into applause, and the blonde mouse gave a dramatic bow, taking his seat again.

“Ah, Percy, that was almost as clever as that one you thought up in Basingstoke!” praised Lord Antony Dewhurst.

“Dashed bad weather in Basingstoke right now, what?” continued Lord Edward Hastings.

“I believe I have a second cousin in Basingstoke…..” contemplated Blakeney.

“Oh, no, Percy, that’s in Kensington!” corrected Ffoulkes.

“Ah, yes, quite right.”

Suzanne, growing tired of the dull conversation, and frightened of the still occasional glares that Citizen Chauvelin sent her way, noticed that the musicians were playing a minuet in the ball room. “Andrew,” she kindly asked, “might we dance?”

“Oh, yes, of course, Suzanne!” Andrew quickly rose, helping the young lady up and leading her to the dance floor.

Percy, fluttering his eyes, placed a hand over his heart, and sighed, mocking his young friend. “Oh, but whatever you want, Suzanne!” It got a laugh out of Tony and Edward, but Marguerite was not amused. She felt like quipping that he’d been like that when they’d been engaged, but she didn’t feel like dredging up the past. Besides, Percy would simply say some frivolous, hurtful remark in any case.

She could feel two sets of eyes upon her, but she was half comforted, knowing who’s eye’s they were. One pair belonged to the ambassador, who was gazing at her with his customary look of adoration and mad devotion. The second was that of Mr. Basil of Baker Street. She would need to talk to him soon, if he planned to leave early. Of all the times to go to France!

Marguerite, tired of sitting and letting those eyes watch her, quietly scurried out to the ballroom, listening to the minuet, trying not to think. A full quarter of an hour had passed, and yet, all the same, it seemed like mere moments before Chauvelin, ever the stubborn suitor, snuck up to her.

“You and I are going to save your brother tonight,” he told her in a low whisper, gently taking her hand, though he still stood behind her. Marguerite’s soul rose and sank in one quick beat. Armand! But that would mean that the Pimpernel would be betrayed. It wasn’t too late! She could still refuse him, try and run. But no, Armand’s life was too precious.

Slowly, she turned to face him, and he was smiling his cold smile of triumph. His pale eyes radiated his success, and his utter obsession with winning her and with finding the Pimpernel. Her breaths were shallow, and she gulped, before she finally tried to speak.

“You…know, and that means….Chauvelin, what am I to do?”

He kissed her paw, looking worried for her. “You must calm down, ma cherie. He is safe. I have taken every means of protecting him. At this very moment, my most trusted soldiers are taking him into their care.”

Horrified and angry, she ripped her auburn paw from his black one. “No! You…you promised me that-”

“Nothing will happen so long as you do as I say.”

“You bastard!” she hissed, barely managing to keep her voice in a whisper, wanting to scream at him, to slap him, to shower abuses on his head. “You have deceived me once again!”

“Sometimes games of deceit are necessary ones.”

“I swear to God, Chauvelin, I will never forgive you for this!”

“In time, I think, you will come to appreciate how I handled things.”

“I want no more of this!”

“Then you send your brother to his grave.”

Marguerite was shaking. Her knees were buckling, her teeth were chattering. She’d gone pale, she felt as though she might faint. Chauvelin noted this, and while he did not like seeing her like that, he knew that it was the only way.

“Young Lord Antony Dewhurst is in League with the Scarlet Pimpernel-”

“Tony?” she interrupted. “That’s impossible! Your spies have erred.”

“I think not,” he growled. “You cannot protect the world from retribution, Marguerite. Turn around and face your fate; Dewhurst has a note in his sleeve. Extract it by whatever means you see best.”

“Chauvelin,” she begged once more, her final plea, her throws of death, “I can’t!”

“You must.”

She would have tried to argue more, but one look from his pale blue eyes silenced her. “I shall do what I can,” she whimpered.

“That’s all I ask of you.”

Tony, who’d been watching his friends engage in a game of hazard, looked up, surprised, to find Lady Blakeney.

“Might I trouble you with a dance? I’ve always been fond of waltzes, and-”

He stood, still surprised. “Yes, of course, Lady Blakeney.”

She smiled her most charming smile. “Thank you,” she said, giving him her paw.

He lead her out to the dance floor, and for a little while, they flittered and twirled about the floor, until Marguerite acted as though she were getting dizzy, and complained of feeling faint.

“Are you alright?” he asked worriedly, leading her from the floor.

“If you could just help me sit in an empty room for a moment. Oh, but it’s so crowded, it makes me hot, and faint,” she sighed, covering her lovely blue eyes with a delicate paw.

“Yes, of course!” Dewhurst managed to get her into a small, separate room. Settling her in a chair, he remembered the note he had in his sleeve. Double checking that her eyes were closed, he stepped closer to the candle on the table, and unfurled it.

Little did he know that Lady Blakeney watched him from just barely opened eyes. Seeing him begin to burn the note, she quickly leapt up, snatching it from his hand. Dewhurst, shocked, tried to offer up protests, but Marguerite quickly cut him off.

“Oh, how clever you are, Lord Tony! Burnt parchment is not quite as effective as a burnt feather for giddiness, I grant you, but it does make me feel much better!” She began to steady herself on the table, but “accidentally,” knocked over the small bowl of wax fruit. “Oh, dear!” she cried, going to scoop it up.

“No, it’s alright, I’ll get it! There’s no harm done, really,” Tony exclaimed, stooping to clear the floor.

Quickly, Marguerite unfurled the note, reading what she could. What frightened her most of all, however, was how the paper was signed: A small, red, star shaped flower.

The Scarlet Pimpernel.

Just before Lord Dewhurst could replace the bowl on the table, Marguerite closed the note, burning it again before wafting the smoke under her nose. Carefully, she dropped the smoldering remnants onto a silver platter.

“Thank you ever so much, Lord Antony.”

“Yes, of course. I’m afraid the dance is over now, but-”

“Oh, no, that is fine. I think I will go seclude myself in a little corner and rest. I can’t simply have a fainting spell, now can I?”

“No, of course not,” he agreed, bowing and kissing her paw before watching her go.

“Most of it was burnt by time I got to it,” she offered, trying to evade the question.

“What could you make out?” he pressed, snatching up her soft paw, caressing it with his own ebony paw.

She suppressed a shiver at his touch, unwelcome, and tried to focus. “I think….I think it said ‘Library. Midnight.’”

His eyes lit up, and his grip upon her small paw tightened. “And how was it signed?”

“It was not signed. It merely had the stamp of a red, star shaped flower.”

“The Scarlet Pimpernel,” he whispered, ecstatic. A terrible grin spread across his black face and he suppressed the urge to laugh. “Oh, well done, Marguerite, I knew you could do it. I always had faith in you.”

She turned her head away from him as he inched even closer to her, little space between them. “Yes, I know.”

“We worked so well together tonight.” He paused to run his paw across her cheek, sighing his customary sigh, gazing his customary gaze. “But then, we always worked well together, didn’t we?”

“Please,” she begged, feeling even more uncomfortable, “stop.” It was the first time in over a month she’d had the courage to ask him to stop whatever it was he was doing. She had been his puppet, too terrified for her brother to deny him anything. He was surprised, and stopped caressing her cheek, though his paw remained. “I am a married woman,” she explained, managing to look at him once more. “And this is a large party. It would look….bad, to say the least. Were we alone, then, of course,” she continued, appeasing him sweetly and seductively, holding his hand, gazing at him lovingly, though it was an act, “I would not try and stop you. But not here. Not tonight.”

His previous tension disappeared, melting into her lovely, blue eyed gaze. At that moment, tricked into a false security, he would have believed her had she told him that the Scarlet Pimpernel was really a flying pig. The moment did not last long; his zeal for the Republic, and his cause of finding the Pimpernel, returned him to his more stable state of mind.

Clearing his throat, he asked her “What time is it?”

“A quarter till twelve.”

He grinned once more, and said “Good. I trust I will see you later?”

“Perhaps,” she allowed. “I might be leaving shortly.”

“I hope you stick around long enough for me to say goodnight.”

“Whatever you want, Chauvelin.”

“You’re such a sweet, sensible girl, Marguerite. That’s only one of the many things I love about you.”

She forced a smile at the compliment, and politely asked to be excused; she had a friend she needed to talk to.

Chauvelin let her go, having a “friend,” to meet as well. Quietly, he crept into the library, deserted it seemed. He settled himself into a chair, content to wait. The only soul inside was Sir Percy Blakeney, the great idiot; he was sprawled out on a couch, snoring loudly and contentedly, dreaming some idiotic dream. Chauvelin grinned, deciding this was a good way to wait for the Pimpernel. Closing his eyes, he slumped in his chair, feigning sleep, waiting, waiting, waiting.

What he did not know was that Tony and Andrew had been making for the library at the same time he had, only he had just beat them. They saw him as he disappeared inside, and quickly retreated, making good their escape; safe for now.

In a completely different part of the house, in a corner not unlike the one Marguerite had just been in, Lady Blakeney was talking with Basil, who was listening calmly.

“I am terrified out of my mind, monsieur!” she cried, shaking uncontrollably. “The Pimpernel must be warned, he must be-”

“Lady Blakeney, I must respectfully ask you to calm down. I am leaving for France first thing in the morning, and I plan to run into our mysterious friend. If he does not already know by then, I will tell him.”

She barely dared to hope, and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “Then you know who he is?”

“I might, I might not.” The clock in the hall struck twelve thirty. “In any case, I must be off, and I suggest you convince your husband to leave as well. A little sleep ought to calm your nerves.”

“Yes, of course….Thank you, Monsieur Basil, for all the help you’ve provided me. I do not know how I shall ever repay you.”

“We will work that out when the job is finished.”

Marguerite turned to go when the detective stopped her for a moment.

“I think you are wrong, you know; I believe that poor sod of a husband does love you.”

Marguerite’s jaw hung slightly slack. She blinked, surprised, said nothing. Finally, she said goodnight, and thanked him again. With that, he bowed, and respectfully said goodnight to Mine Host, Lord Grenville, and left.

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