The Other Prisoner

Players:

Percy - Rhonda
Teresia - Sarah
Chauvelin - K
Bathurst - K

Quarter to one.

There were far too few hours in the day and too much to do to, Chauvelin found himself rushing from one place to the next. He wished he might have more time to enjoy his victories than the short carriage rides from place to place. He was on the verge of having everything he wanted, and yet so many wrinkles in his plan were forming. Evening this meeting with la Cabarrus was just another aggravation, when he should be celebrating. At least he would be closer to his prized catch, to turn the screw just a little more. Chauvelin looked out of the coach window to see La Force rising up on the right.

Teresia left La Force and headed back to her apartments. She hadn't slept all night and, alert as she felt, she knew she must rest awhile before returning to the prison at 1 o'clock. She noticed a shape detach itself from the shadows and follow her at a discrete distance... huh, Desgas! she thought, remembering that Chauvelin had set him to tail her before and thinking he must have done so once more. However, her accompanying shadow was not conducting itself as one would expect a tail to do... it caught her up.

"Keep walking!" hissed Moreau in her ear. Teresia glanced right and recognized the olive coloured great-coat of the man beside her, then down at the dagger she felt pressed to her side.

"Citizen Moreau, what are you doing here? Rumour had it you were in Koblenz." she replied in anxious tones, but he didn't respond. They walked the last few yards to her apartments and climbed the stairs in silence. Teresia unlocked the door and entered, curtly dismissing Pepita, who glanced warily at the stranger with her mistress but said nothing. Moreau lowered the knife and La Cabarrus took the opportunity to move well away from him. "Was that really necessary?" she asked coldly.

"Probably not, but you're so unpredictable and I wanted to talk to you in private."

"Well, whatever you have to say had better be worth it." Teresia untied her cloak and cast it aside, "Chauvelin's set his spies to watch me. They're an incompetent lot of cabrones, but if they saw me with you I can kiss my neck goodbye. You're a dangerous man to know, Andre!"

"Ha! isn't everyone these days? I'm an agent of the Committee of Public Safety, just like your friend Chauvelin, only he reports to Robespierre... that boring little royalist from Arras... whilst I'm a true Dantonist."

"That's not what I heard... I heard you had used your committee papers to smuggle Aline de Kercadieu and Therese de Plougastel out of France. Brandy?" she poured two glasses without waiting for a reply.

"True enough and I'd do it again tomorrow if I had to. Thanks!" he took the proffered glass.

"That makes you a traitor... unless Isaac le Chapelier is telling the truth and you really are working for him?"

"Isaac told you that?" Moreau asked, surprised and warmed by his friend's loyalty.

"He didn't need to tell me. There are more rumours aplenty in this city. So, is it true? Are you working for him? I thought you were in love with Aline de Kercadieu and that's why you helped her flee."

"I am." The humour had gone from Moreau's voice, causing Teresia to scrutinise him more closely. She knew him to be a man of unscrupulous cunning and boundless energy, but sat there in her salon he looked tired.

"Did life in Germany not agree with you?" she asked, more to break the silence than because she cared. Moreau smiled, but again the humour was lacking. The last few weeks spent as a 'guest' of Monsieur the King's brother had, excepting the sweet smiles of Aline of whom he'd seen all too little, been absolute hell!

"The locals were very hospitable to me because I always paid my bills on time, but they are fast tiring of the self-important leeches, who live in luxury on credit they cannot possibly honour." Nor had these leeches taken kindly to Moreau's presence. Many wanted him dead and, despite Monsieur's declaration forbidding the carrying of swords, the animosity of the courtiers made itself felt continuously. Moreau had spent most of his time waiting for an audience with Monsieur. As Aline's employer, Monsieur's permission had to be granted before the two could wed. Hour after lengthy hour he had spent in that lonely anti-chamber with nothing to relieve the tedium, until finally an aide would tell him, with ill concealed glee, that Monsieur could not see him that day for some pathetic reason or another. "Isaac came to Koblez on a diplomatic mission, but a few sycophant friends of Monsieur laid an ambush for him. I made sure they didn't succeed." he concluded with characteristic modesty.

"What do you intend to do now?" Teresia asked. "You can't just resume your life, can you?"

"I have plans." he replied simply, not revealing that he had now formed an uneasy alliance with one of the Republics fiercest opponents, the Baron de Batz. "But what about you? Why are Chauvelin's spies trailing you? I thought he trusted you implicitly."

"Chauvelin doesn't even trust his own reflection any more. He has captured an English spy and wants to ensure that he gets all the credit for it. I was so close, Andre, so close! If Chauvelin had waited just two more days, we'd have had the spy and all his men; but the good citizen is too impatient." Teresia began to rile against Chauvelin and the way he had prevented her from seeing Blakeney and persuading him to lead her to the league, then she moved on to Bathurst and the forthcoming interrogation. Moreau however was only half listening. Hadn't de Batz mentioned something to him about an English spy... the Scarlet something-or-other! Could this be the man? He was brought back to the present by Teresia concluding, "He's run off now, all self important, to deliver the news to Citizen Robespierre himself."

"Robespierre? Bah! How can anyone respect a man who could put the entire Assembly to sleep simply by clearing his throat?"

"You should be careful how you speak of the Incorruptible, Andre." admonished the Spaniard.

"Oh please, Teresia, the man's not incorruptible," his voice was defiant with contempt, "just scared. Scratch the surface and you'll find that Citizen Robespierre is on the same side of the fence as everyone else... his own!"

Teresia laughed and the pair argued amiably about politics until the brandy bottle was half empty. "Madre de Dios!" exclaimed Teresia suddenly, "Look at the time!" She would have to leave immediately if she were to reach La Force before 1 o'clock. "Maybe it was the brandy, or maybe it was Moreau's presence, but suddenly a rash idea entered her head. "Do you still have your committee pass?" She asked.

"Yes, of course."

"Could you get me in to see the English spy? Just for a few minutes. I can pretend to feel faint during Bathurst's interrogation and leave the room. Chauvelin would be occupied and I could get to the Lion's Pit and back before he notices I've gone."

"Now, well... I don't know!" replied Moreau, who had intended to go alone at that exact moment for the same reason.

"Gracias!" exclaimed Teresia, choosing to interpret anything short of an absolute negative as agreement. "Give me ten minutes and then follow me to La Force."

She grabbed her cloak and ran out of the door, leaving a stunned and slightly irritated Moreau to follow at the dictated distance. Teresia hailed a cab and arrived at La Force just in time to see Chauvelin's official carriage turning in passed the sentries. She hastily paid her driver and hurried towards the prison.

"... and no one has made inquires?" Chauvelin demanded.

"Not yet," Desgas replied. "But it won't remain secret forever."

"I imagine not," Chauvelin mused. "What of the other one?"

"He's been pacing his cell since he arrived. Is it so wise to put la Cabarrus in with him? Given half the chance, I figure he'll break her neck."

"It was her request, her risk," Chauvelin replied. If her neck was broke cie la vie. As though summoned by this though Chauvelin heard the soft tread of footsteps just moments before Teresia arrived with escourt. He looked at his pocket watch. "You're late."

"Your watch is fast." she countered. "Besides, I'm a woman and a Spaniard... it's my prerogative! Shall we?" She allowed Chauvelin to lead her into the palace turned prison.

Ten minutes later, Moreau strolled through the gates, flashed his pass and walked inside. Instead of proceeding to Bathurst's cell, he turned his steps towards the Lion's Pit to wait for La Cabarrus. He took out his watch to count the minutes by. Moreau had calculated exactly how much time he would have, and how long he would wait for Teresia before going alone to see this English prisoner.

Teresia Cabarrus was beginning to make herself more of an annoyance than a help, soon she press too far and he would happily show her the errors of her greed. "It is only out of consideration of the services that you have provided that I allowing to take part in this interrogation. I suggest not giving me cause to regret it," Chauvelin warned. "As it is, this is the first of several interrogations for this prisoner. It is unlikely that he will be very talkative at this point, but then he has only been in custody a few hours. I have given orders that he is to be denied food and drink unless he speaks, but the process takes a while, at this time we may use physical force to get answers... unfortunately later we would have the luxury. The deprivation will weaken him too much and rough handling might kill him too soon."

He walked her directly to Bathurst's door where Desgas waited with the key. "Open it," he commanded, and Desgas obeyed.

Bathurst ceased his pacing and cursing as he heard voices outside. He knew they would eventually come and now it was time. He wondering vague what abuse was on Chauvelin's schedule as the door opened and Chauvelin and that bitch, the false Marquise, entered. He sneered, "I see you brought a body guard, little citoyen. Quite a little viper you've got there."

Teresia let the insult glide over her and countered, "If you know what's good for you, you'll show some respect!" It was easy to be glib with Chauvelin on one side of her and Desgas behind. Strangely she felt that, alone, she would rather be in with Blakeney than Bathurst. Whilst the weaker of the two, Bathurst looked readier to do unnecessary harm out of spite. She almost regretted that she would have to pretend to be ill during the interrogation... he would think it a weakness in her... one point to Milord... pathetic little man! Still, she would at least get to stay for first blood.

Chauvelin wondered with some amusement if la Cabarrus would be so haughty if she were alone with the man. The murderous look in Bathurst's eyes indicated that either way, alone she would not survive long.

"Lord John Bathurst, you are here under the charge of espionage against the People's Republic of France," Chauvelin began. "It is believed you are working in concert with an infamous English spy, that work under the pseudonym the Scarlet Pimpernel, in an effort to undermined the Revolution. I will grant you this one opportunity to confess to your crimes and give up the names of your co-conspirators before I have to resort to more extreme measures."

Bathurst crossed his arms stubbornly over his chest, "A bargain? You mean if I fess up, your bully boys won't pound me bloody?" He eyed the pair of guards behind Teresia and Chauvelin who were messaging their knuckles. "Very well... I will tell you what I know." Chauvelin's eyebrow raised in surprise. "I found out the way of things at Lady Shipwash's soiree, you see. I gave the little Marquise there a ride, while she was giving me one she told me what a bugger you are, said you preferred the company of little boys because you had a cock so small it could satisfy a rabbit. Not my words, you understand. I got bad information and a bad ride out of it all."

She burst out laughing, she couldn't help it, a genuine mirthful laugh. She saw Chauvelin glower at her and tried to stifle the laugh with a hand, but the corners of her mouth were twitching with the effort. To her left she could see Desgas' shoulders shaking slightly in suppressed laughter. "Oh, you will have to do much better than that Milord. It doesn't much signify what I said to you at Shipwash's... I was trying to make you believe that I was a victimized royalist. I'd have told you that grass is blue if I'd thought you'd take me to your chief... madre de dios," she exclaimed, fixing Bathurst with a stinging look, "I'd even have told you I loved you!"

Chauvelin was less than amused by Bathurst jabs, but it was Teresia and Desgas's reactions that angered him more. But a master of patience and planning, Chauvelin could wait to strike back at the rebellious little Spaniard.

"It doesn't much signify what I said to you at Shipwash's..." Teresia further taunted. "I'd even have told you I loved you!"

The words stung Bathurst, but he hid the pain with a barb of his own. "Indeed!" he shot back. "I should have been tipped off by the queue forming outside your boudoir door. Perhaps if you dwarf friend here hurries with my execution, I might skip the effects of whatever pox I might have picked up from you."

At this last comment, Chauvelin smirked as Teresia bristled in response. "Technically, my lord Bathurst, you are not here. So we have some time before your execution." The two guard near Desgas, moved forward and after wrestling a bit managed to pin the large Englishman to the wall. Only after Bathurst was pinned did Desgas step up to loosen the man's tongue.

Poxed? Poxed??? She knew he was just taunting her, but it still rankled. Before she could formulate a suitable reply, Bathurst was being manhandled to the edge of the cell, struggling pathetically. She knew time was of the essence and she really ought to leave after the first few blows, but Teresia's blood was up. She wanted to see that pompous nose knocked clean of Bathurst's detestable face! There was a look of excitement, even arousal, in her eyes as she watch Desgas lay into the little worm. Just a few moments more, she told herself and she would leave... just a few moments more.

Chauvelin appeared decidedly disinterested in the beating and took greater interest in cleaning under his fingernails. Bloodshed wasn�t his thing at all. Some men lusted for the spilling of blood, whilst Chauvelin only used it to meet his own ends. Bloodying Bathurst�s nose meant nothing more than moving closer to his goals. After about ten minutes of abuse, Chauvelin ordered Desgas to back down so that he might put his questions to Bathurst again.

�Will you now give me a list of the names of your league and their hideouts in France?� Chauvelin asked drolly.

Bathurst raised his head with the greatest of efforts. �Ch-check� check the qu-queue outside that wh-whore�s door� or start qu-questioning physicians back in England� I-I�ll wager she�s p-poxed the lot.� Chauvelin rolled his eyes and motioned for the beating to continue.

The stuttering defiance didn't even touch her this time. It was the same insult which had failed before and grew weaker each time it sallied forth. Bathurst was saying anything now other than what Chauvelin wanted to hear. Obstinate fool, thought Teresia, do you think you can make them stop with cheap tricks?

Moreau reached the door leading down to St Bernard's Court and paused to check his watch. She should be along any moment, so Moreau waited.

In Bathurst's cell, Teresia was enjoying herself, but knew she couldn't stay. She was rather glad when an awkward punch from Desgas broke Bathurst's nose with an audible crunch and the sickly sweet smell of blood began to permeate the room. She managed to blanche convincingly at the sound and would work on her exit from that moment on.

Chauvelin stiffled a yawn as he watched Desgas pound Bathurst's face bloody. Had he been Blakeney he would have been more excited, but Bathurst was little more than a pawn in this game. He doubted that Bathurst would say anything of value - doubted if he knew anything of value.

He called Desgas off when he heard the crunch if Bathurst's nose breaking. "The names of your league, Lord Bathurst. If you please."

John Bathurst had been in his share of life � started quite a number of them - but there was distinctly unfair in this one. Not much to do but take your lumps when the odds were stacked grossly against you and wait for opportunity to rise. The chief was nearby, of that he was certain, which meant a rescue attempt would be made and the odds were greater for success if he could walk out of his own accord. Still he was none to happy taking lumps from a stinking frog nor having that Spanish puta gloat over it.

He was staring right at her when Desgas's fist had him seeing stars. He heard something snap and wondered at it. His stomach felt queasy and his nose felt stuffed up, not good. Then Chauvelin spoke, "The names of your league, Lord Bathurst. If you please."

"Va te faire," Bathurst replied as he spat out blood and raised two shaky fingers in his direction.

Chauvelin exhaled noisily. "The English are always so obstinate," Chauvelin told Desgas. "Why don't you remove a few of his toenails and see if that loosen his tongue."

The thought of seeing the man's toenails removed really did make Teresia feel sick. "I need air!" she murmered to Chauvelin, hiding her mouth from Bathurst's gaze and left the room. Outside she clung to the wall, taking great gulps of air and then, pretending that the fetted atmosphere was not helping, she set off as though to go outside. She could hear Bathurst's cries for quite a while, but then she was out of range. Reasoning that if she could not hear them, they could not hear her, Teresia broke into a gentle trot and made her way as quickly as possible to her rendezvous with Moreau. She arrived with a stitch in her side and he had to hold her whilst she caught her breath. "I was beginning to think something had happened to you." he said softly, "There are two guards on duty. Wait here," he gestured to a darkened alcove, "until both have passed by." Then he adjusted his sword belt and set off towards the cell of the English spy.

"Yes?" asked a sullen guard outside the cell, "Whaddaya want?". His companion was asleep and snoring softly.

"Stand up when you address me!" snapped Moreau, showing his committee pass. The light was poor, but the guard was quick enough to recognise its authority. "And you!" Moreau spat at the sleeping man, delivering a vicious kick simultaneously. The second guard awoke with a curse, but soon realised that his colleague was treating the newcomer with deference and followed suit. "Why are you asleep on duty?"

"Beggin' your pardon, Citizen," started the first guard, "but we've been ordered to wake the prisoner every 5 minutes, day and night, so we're taking it in turns to sleep ourselves."

"How long have you been here?"

"Since before midnight, Citizen."

"Over 14 hours and no one has relieved you?"

"No, Citizen, we assumed we would not be relieved."

"Nonsense! How can you expect to guard a prisoner as dangerous as this one when you are both dog tired and one of you is asleep at all times? Why, when you go to waken the prisoner, what is there to stop him laying an ambush for you... eh? Nothing, that's what!" The guards started to look slightly embarrassed. "Go back to your barracks, both of you, find two replacements and send them here. Then get some sleep and report back at midnight. You will be working shifts from now on. Go! I'll remain here until your replacements arrive." Both guards were now non-plussed. They felt that to leave would be to disobey Citizen Chauvelin's orders, yet this man was Chauvelin's equal and he was ordering them to go and, in truth, both guards longed for a better atmosphere and a warm bed. It didn't take them long to decide.

In her alcove, Teresia could here the conversation only faintly. Then she heard the sound of steps coming towards her. She could not move until they were gone.

Back at the cell door, Moreau checked his watch. He reckoned they had at least half and hour before the replacements arrived. Noiselessly he drew his sword... just in case the prisoner did take it into his head to ambush the next man to enter his cell. Carefully he unlocked the door and walked in.

<Percy>

Percy had huddled on the narrow cot so long his back ached, but he was too tired to get up. Too tired to think. He had come to the point where eachwake-up call was an interruption in and endless waking dream.

A figure hovered at the door - out of uniform. Percy noted that and forced his eyelids to open once more. Definitely out of uniform. Since Percy was a little nearsighted he saw everyone in shades of colour and ill-defined shapes that, with consistent blinking, formed into more concrete details. This one was the general size and shape of a Frenchie - they were a little shorter on the whole than the English, having been less well-nourished for much of their history - and with lanky black hair hanging loose to his shoulders, which was not unusual for a Revolutionary, but this man was dressed in breeches and hose. Not a sans-coulotte. Wearing a coat and cravat, he was as unusual a sight in La Force as a decent meal. Percy blinked again and struggled to sit up. Was he hallucinating? Who could tell? Perhaps the apparition could, Percy decided.

"You're out of place, monsieur," he said in his typical laconic style, his voice ravelly with fatigue. "I don't recollect ever seeing a coat like that within these walls. Who are you?"

No sooner had Percy spoken than he wondered if it were one of his own men come to rescue him. Another solid blink assured him it was not. The pronounced nose and cheekbones were oddly familiar . . . who was he?

"Andre Moreau, at your service." Scaramouche gave a bow that lampooned the English fashion, but the sword point never waivered. He watched to see the name made any impression on the prisoner. Teresia stopped breathing as the guards walked by, then she quietly slipped out of her hiding place and made her way towards Blakeney's cell.

<Percy>

Through the perpetual buzzing in his exhausted brain, Percy tried to decipher the name, which sounded familiar, but why? Having become used to the rhythmic interruptions he jolted awake and stared at the door which remained closed. What had happened?

He struggled up onto his elbow. "Moreau?" he croaked. "Has the revolution stopped?"

<Andre-Louis>

It took a while to grasp the man's meaning, but when the prisoner glanced at the door Moreau got the message. "Consider this an entr'acte. There is a lady outside wishes to speak with you. We have about ten minutes before the replacement guards arrive and the play resumes... I suggest you make the most of it." So saying, he opened the door and Teresia hurried in.

<Percy>

"Entre'acte?" Percy asked stupidly, looking up at the ceiling briefly as if he expected to find proscenium and draperies.

'I suggest you make the most of it,' Moreau said, and Percy's first thought was how much he would value ten minutes of uninterrupted sleep - but as he closed his eyes the beginning of the sentence replayed in his brain: 'There is a lady outside wishes to speak with you.'

It had been ever so long since Sir Percy had last spent any time with a lady, and he sincerely hoped he wasn't so nearly dead as to feel no interest on that front!

He brushed down his coat with an unsteady hand. "I am woefully unprepared for company . . ." he muttered as he tried to sit up, then fixed Moreau with a bleary stare.

"You're not a dream," he said in an attempt to make conversation. "There are times I think the dreams are more real than the guards."

Then the door opened once more and this time the face that appeared there was definitely one he knew. He sat on the cot silently for a moment, just drinking in the sight of her, then he rose, wobbling slightly on his uncertain knees.

"Mi-lady Cab-bar-us," he said enunciating with extreme care. "I bid you wel-come."

He met her at the door with hand outstretched, determined to make a formal bow to her, when his eyes rolled back in his head and he veered dangerously from side to side. He was obliged to stop in mid-obeisance, turning green of face with his eyes falling back in his skull.

Teresia rushed forward to aid him and motioned to Moreau to guard the door. "Ten minutes, maximum." he warned her, " and if I knock three times you leave at once, understood?" Yes, said her eyes, now go. Moreau closed the door softly behind him.

"Sir Percy? Sir Percy, wake up!" she patted his cheek, then getting no response, reached for the cup of water on the side. Teresia knew he'd only been in jail since midnight, but how long was it since he had actually slept? Two days? More? The water smelt foul and made her retch... no wonder the man was passing out! She couldn't make him drink it, so she splashed it over his face instead, hoping to bring him to his senses.

<Percy>

Sir Percy shivered awake, feeling a spray of liquid on his cheeks and dripping off his chin. He was lying flat on his back on the floor with the delicious Cabarrus hovering over him, her full breasts pressing into his cravat and her expressive brown eyes bright with concern. Had she been crying over him? Imagining him dead? His stomach flip-flopped at the idea that she may, perhaps, feel some small tenderness for him.

"Uuuhh . . ." he moaned, struggling to rise and batting his thick eyelashes as prettily as Lord Tony might have were he so fortunate as to be lying on his back before the marquise.

"I beg your forgiveness lady . . ." Odds fish, what was he to say? *I am faint with hunger? Sick with worry?* Every excuse that came to him sounded womanish and above all, he couldn't bear to appear weak before this delectable female. Her eyelids fluttered as if she were fighting tears and she licked her full lower lip . . . a trembling lower lip. Strength surged into Blakeney's arms - he felt himself reborn . . . well, nearly. "Lud love me, what I wouldn't give for a swallow or two of brandy at this moment," he muttered as he pulled himself upright.

She helped him to his feet, a huge physical task for the height difference was so great between them. Then when she was sure he would not collapse again, she went to the door to ask Moreau if he had a hip flask. Returning triumphant, she handed Sir Percy the brandy then repeated Moreau's warning. "I haven't long. No one knows I'm here except Citizen Moreau. If Chauvelin were to find out..." she lowered her voice unconsciously, "well, let us just say my life wouldn't last long enough for it to cease to be worth living!" She was watching him intently now... was it concern for him? Was it hope? Was it expectation? What did she expect him to say to her? "I want to help." she finished lamely.

<Percy>

"Help? In what way, help?" he asked, filling his mouth with the rich liquid and allowing it to flame on his tongue before he swallowed. Damn, it was good! He handed the flask back after a single swallow - although he yearned to drain the thing - well aware of the effect of potent spirit on an empty stomach. He felt his stomach wriggle like a demented cat as the brandy reached it.

"Do you . . ." Percy paused, halted by the marquise's eyes. Dark and fathomless as midnight they were. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I wonder if you've any way of finding out if any of my men are about? I did tell you, I think, that I don't work alone."

It was a lace-edged request, filled with polite balderdash; his first thought had been to ask if she knew anything about his wife. Where was Lady Blakeney? Someone had to know, and his first action must be to find someone who could lead him to her. But, of course, he couldn't ask Madame Cabarrus such a question - it simply wasn't done.

"I hope there might be a man or two I might call on," he elaborated pointlessly, recalling about how he'd commanded Ffoulkes to drive them all away from Paris. Commanded they take the Daydream to England and stay put for a fortnight.

"Dewhurst wouldn't listen," he muttered to himself, "but Ffoulkes could force the point." At the time he'd demanded Sir Andrew's word, Percy had hoped Ffoulkes might drag his cousin by the hair if necessary . . . and now he wondered just how wayward Lord Tony might be. Was there a chance the little rapscallion was lurking in the corridors of La Force? Hiding round corners, peeping in keyholes? Percy prayed, God grant me one chance - just one chance!

"No, you didn't tell me, but I know all the same." She thought of Bathurst and how Sir Percy might react when he found out. Should she tell him now or later? The whole truth or only half? "I know three of your friends by sight... Lord Dewhurst, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Bathurst. The others you must describe to me and anywhere I might look for them. From what I have heard they all got away except Lord Bathurst." A pause, how much to tell? "I fear Chauvelin is currently venting upon him the physical violence he would like to pour on you." She glanced into his eyes to see how he took the news. She hadn't lied, but she had concealed her role in the arrest... and hoped he didn't guess.

<Percy>

The marquise�s words shivered down his spine. �Bathurst? Here?� Damnation, that could have been welcome news, but the idea of bold Bathurst in Chauvelin�s clutches was less than gratifying. �The only good news on that front is that milord Bathurst would never spill a word � he�s as stubborn as a stoat . . . and as mean. Chauvelin will have his hands full.�

A more sinister thought crossed Blakeney�s mind at that. �Of course, it wouldn�t be Chauvelin himself inflicting the punishment,� he said more to himself than the marquise. �No one can stand up to endless torture. Very well, Bathurst must be first, then . . .�

He faltered again as he turned and gazed into Cabarrus�s lovely dark eyes. Sir Percy had a penchant for dark-eyed women � wenches and ladies both � and the Spaniard�s eyes were a unique shade that tempered the heat of fine brandy with the flash of brass, a bronzy, lustrous colour that warmed his blood in a way Moreau�s French cognac had not.

�Clever of you to discover that, Madame Cabarrus,� Sir Percy said. �Is it too much to hope that you may know where Bathurst is being held?�

It would be too much by far to hope that Bathurst might know where Chauvelin was holding Marguerite, but there was a chance, in locating Bathurst, he could pick up a clue to where the wily skunk was detaining his wife.

"On the other side of the prison." Replied Teresia. "When last I saw him, he was being very stubborn indeed. I hope he will continue to be so... the longer Chauvelin is occupied with him, the longer we have to talk... but we cannot assume it. Quickly, is there some message I can take to your friends if they are still in Paris?"

Bathurst had so small degree of satisfaction that the Spanish whore had become ill. If there were any justice in the world she would slip on her on vomit and break her bloody neck. If he managed to get out of this alive, he'd hunt that bitch down. It was those too vivid pictures of what he would do to Teresia which held him through having his toenails uprooted - not that he sat there quietly as several bloody noses and a concussion attested to. The revenge wouldn't end with Teresia, Bathurst was making a list which included Chauvelin and Desgas.

Chauvelin folded his arma impatiently, the Englishman was too stubborn for his own good, Unfortunately, he needed the man to live until Blakeney was dealt with.

"Where are your friends!" Desgas demanded.

"Go fu--!" The words were stopped by a powerful fist smashed into his jaw. Yes, the man was too stupid for his own good. The exercise was one in futility. At least it was enough of a show to appease Cabarrus. Cabarrus who had become too sick to continue watching, who was at that moment loose in his prison without escourt. Not that there was much she could do alone, but the idea didn't settle well with him.

<Percy>

Percy was momentarily speechless, taken aback by the lady�s quick response. �Sink me, I�m mighty glad you�re on my side!� he murmured, thoroughly nonplussed at her information and her inspiration. He wondered if she had any news of Marguerite and bit his tongue against asking her, hooding his eyes with indolent, blue-veined lids in an effort to hold himself in check.

Blakeney flicked the marquise a crooked smile. Too quick she was. Too clever � and he worn out and weak from his imprisonment. All too easy it would be for her to catch him off guard. She might seize upon any clue and decipher it. She could be his undoing.

�Quickly,� hissed Madame Cabarrus, �is there some message I can take to your friends if they are still in Paris?�

�They are not � or at least they are not supposed to be . . . those that you would recognise. But there are a few other friends.� He moistened his lips before continuing. A tremendous gamble it was to give her a name. He could be pointing the finger at a dear friend who could become Chauvelin�s next pigeon . . . or he could be pulling a lever that lifted the lid on the trap that held his wife.

�Chez Plancher, do you know it? A gentleman�s couturier on rue Saint-Honor�. Not far from St. Roche.�

"I know the place." she confirmed. Her ex-husband had been a frequent client of M. Plancher, but there wasn't time to explain all that. Instead, she waited for her instructions.

<Percy>

Percy nodded curtly. "Perhaps it will not surprise you then," he said in a voice that was carefully neutral, "that it is a hotbed or royalist resistance. Well, it makes sense, doesn't it? All of Plancher's customers are either nobility or the wealthiest bourgeoises. Dream up some excuse to visit the place and on your way, purchase flowers for him. Any kind. It will alert him that you are new, but to be trusted. Go after 4:00 when it's quiet and ask Plancher for a list of his visitors and the approximate dates he heard from them. He'll know what I want."

Briefly Percy reached out as if intending to rest his hand on Cabarrus's shoulder, a precise and controlled gesture totally lacking his customary grace, but as their eyes met, his slender hand fluttered back to his side and he shook his head ineffectually.

"Plancher is bound to ask you what's gone wrong. Tell him there are 2 complications. He won't need more information than that." Percy was growing breathless from the exertion of standing so long, but the marquise continued to look expectant. Obviously she was prepared to do a great deal. He recalled her in her boy's disguise, and quickly decided he would risk it all. Giving her Plancher's name was handing her the opportunity to betray him and all his league . . . but the next step would the same as giving her his own sword to use on him if she so desired.

"You said that you trust your maid . . ."

Cabarrus nodded.

"I observed that she was not concerned that a strange man would visit you at home. Would you be willing to collect information doe me? Plancher could direct a few friends to you if it's acceptable to you. It appears that no one around you would be suspicious of a few callers."

Suddenly Percy coloured to his hairline as he realised what he was implying. "They won't all be men . . . it won't look like that . . ."

Damnation, how could he have insinuated such a thing? Of course the women of the French aristocracy were legendary for their romantic liaisons � why it was one of the unspoken reasons why fathers in England sent their young sons to Paris to learn culture and discretion; but it was silent knowledge. Such actions were never spoken of: seen and sensed only. Percy knew nothing of the Marquise's situation save that she didn't even live with her husband, which in the parlance of society stated that she was available.

"I . . . uh . . . did not mean to infer . . ." he bubbled, tumbling mounds of verbal hay over his filthy mess. Oh it wouldn't do for him to insult her! "The friends are all good French citizens, simple, honest people and you are not obliged to do more than hear their messages . . ."

She sensed his very English embarrassment, smiled and placed her hand over his mouth to shut him up. "Plancher's, after 4pm, with flowers, tell him 2 problems... it will be done." She removed her hand, but held his gaze, "and my maid's name is Pepita. I would trust her with my life."

<Percy>

Percy's mind was doing somersaults as he tried to keep up with Madame Cabarrus - not because her conversation was so very convoluted, but because fantasy kept interfering with reality. There was the fantasy that she was really here, in this place, for one thing. That they were alone together and at least ten minutes had passed without an interruption from one of Chauvelin's guards. And that her cleavage had a depth and shadow that begged to be investigated. Combined, it was all too much.

"I must find a way to free Bathurst before he's killed keeping my secrets. And my . . ." He coughed delicately, interrupting the flow of words. "I have another compatriot who's whereabouts are unknown to me," he amended.

"Moreau was with you. A known revolutionary." Percy balled his fists and fiercely knuckled his eyes.

"If only I could think! I keep seeing things, but before I can think my way through, the problem dissolves into another complication."

"I must find a way to trick Chauvelin into betraying . . . and Bathurst. Tough he may be, but he's still flesh and bone for all that. We'll need a closed coach to transport him after whatever ghastly ordeal he's been through. And . . . and . . ."

He staggered once more as if he was too tired to remain standing. Resolutely Percy straightened, thrusting his shoulders back and shaking his head.

"Give Plancher your address and dream up a password. Something your Pepita will recognize. I trust you to find a way to pass me the message I need - you'll know it when you see it. Until then, absorb whatever information you can and God protect you, Marquise!"

He swiped her hand up and kissed its back. "Beware of Chauvelin. He's capable of any sort of double dealing. Lying. If he suspects you, he'll have you executed and I would never forgive myself."

"I'll be fine." she whispered and would have said more, had not Moreau's careful knock upon the door warned her that the time was up. "I have to go." she said, with regret in every syllable.

<Percy>

The lady was gone as quickly as she'd come. A moment after the door clanked shut he blinked at the empty space beside him scarcely able to believe the conversation had taken place. But it had - she had dusted the floor with her hems, and unsettled the air with her presence. There was a lingering whiff of some exotic perfume that dissipated as Percy stumbled through it back to his cot. He collapsed onto the low mattress and felt shivers coming on again as he struggled to cover himself with the blanket. God, he was sick. It was more than fatigue, more than hunger. Perhaps he had brain fever. Or, perhaps the knowledge that he'd truly lost Marguerite was killing him.

She'd come risking her life to rescue Armand, never imagining that he had come to do the same thing. Because he hadn't dared tell her what he intended, she had stumbled into Chauvelin's clutches. . . and the magical, mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel suddenly found his resources stretched to the limit. The illusion of a man who heard everything, was in six places at once, who walked through walls and flew through the air was about to come crashing into reality with the first losses of life that could be directly attributed to his incompetence.

Percy's teeth chattered. He felt jumpy and edgy, as if his skin was too tight, but damn, he was too weak to pace the nervousness out of his system as he usually did. The habits of his dissipated life had rounded on him with a vengeance; he needed a drink more than words could say and craved tobacco. His stomach was fighting like a clawing animal as he starved and his brain was jumping into and out of ideas too fast for a single thought to stick.

He needed to be free. He desperately needed a breath of sweet air. His lanky hair tickled his neck and his beard scratched the backs of his hands as he clutched his shoulders trying to get warm. Warm? Wasn't it August? The air was damp with humidity and Blakeney shivered with fever.

Huddled into a ball, he concentrated, recalling what he'd demanded of the marquise. What was she doing there? How had she . . .

. . . no: he would concentrate on his plan. First Plancher. She would tell Plancher there was trouble. Two complications would alert the tailor that there were two distinct incidents, two dangers or two prisoners and he would pass that message on to . . .

Two . . . Blakeney shivered as he realized he'd counted Bathurst and Margot, not himself. Would Ffoulkes hear "two" and count only himself and Bathurst? Damn, damn!

No, no, wait . . . Glynde had told him that Marguerite was in Paris. Had been captured by Chauvelin. Glynde knew. Perhaps it was Bathurst, then, that the others would discount.

No, that was wrong, too. Hastings got along well with Bathurst . . . most of the time. It was Ffoulkes who could scarcely stomach Lord John's presence.

"It will all unravel," Percy told himself as he drifted into sleep. Faces flicked through his memory and then blackness descended.

The interrogation was going nowhere. Lord John Bathurst was either too stubborn or foolish or ignorant to obtain any useful information from and if they pushed any further, they would kill him. Not that Chauvelin cared whether the obnoxious Englishman perished, so long as it was after Blakeney.

�Enough,� Chauvelin commanded. �We need him alive a bit longer.� Desgas gave him a mutinous look, but backed away rubbing his knuckles. �In the future, my Lord Bathurst, I recommend telling us what we want to know. Your leader is the only thing keeping you alive, once he is dead Desgas will be given free leave of you unless you give me the information I want to know.� Desgas chuckled at that, then motioned for the guards to release Bathurst, who fell into a heap on the floor. As they left the cell, Chauvelin stated, �Keep him alive a few days longer. Focquier-Tinville will have the Pimpernel on trial on the 4th, I want to get as much information from them as I can, if any of our people have helped them, I want them brought to trial.� Desgas nodded. �And clean up the blood.�

Teresia said nothing to Moreau as she passed him, only pausing to nod acknowledgement and thanks. She walked as quickly as she could back to the main part of the prison. Should she go outside? No, she would be seen... seen by people who could tell Chauvelin what time she left and he was sharp enough to realise that it could not have taken her so long to walk from Bathurst's cell. La Cabarrus wanted desparately to go straight to Plancher's, but she knew she mustn't. She had to wait for Chauvelin to emerge from Bathurst's cell. He must see her leave. He must see her go directly home. Only tonight, under cover of darkness, could she visit the tailor. She found a small window... no glass, just bars... and stood by it, as though the air was reviving her, and waited.

Moreau meanwhile was more curious than ever about this English spy. He opened the tiny aparture in the cell door and glanced in. Asleep! The man was asleep! He felt half-inclined to let the man rest, but orders were orders... even if they were Chauvelin's. Moreau had sent the guards away, so Moreau must take their place until the relief shift arrived. Besides it would give him an opportunity to study the man more closely. De Batz had been very respectful when he spoke of this man. Moreau wanted ot know why. Entering the cell he said loudly, "Wake up! No, dreaming here!" and prodded the slumberer with the blunt side of his sword.

Chauvelin wiped his hands on his handkerchief, as though it were his hands covered with blood rather than Desgas. �See those wound cleaned before they get infected,� he ordered. �Can�t have him die before we�re finished with him. Then check on our other prisoner� bring him the toenails, maybe the will loosen his tongue.�

Yawning audibly, Chauvelin departed. He�d spent the last nearly three days without rest and it was all he could do to keep going. He energy came from an overwhelming hate, which would be quenched with the Blakeney�s death. Still it was not only Percy�s death that consumed his thoughts, but Robespierre�s next conquests � the Royal family. Trying time were ahead, the key was to ferret out the secrets and weakness of one�s enemies (and supposed friends � for Chauvelin was well versed in human nature and knew how quickly alliances shifted) in case one�s own life was in question. He was not planning to be caught with his pant down. If he could take credit for the Pimpernel his could angle himself into unassailable, even if Robespierre proceeded with his plans. Robespierre�s solution was to attack before being attacked, holding that his reputation would preserve him. Not Chauvelin.

If any took it to mind to destroy him, they would find themselves soon following him. Chauvelin stumbled across la Cabarrus (a serpent in her own right) taking air in the corridor. He frowned at the prospect that she had be left alone to wander and she had had time. �I do not recommend wandering this place alone, Citoyenne Cabarrus. You don�t know what trouble you could run yourself into.�

"I needed air." she replied calmly. "I had no idea the little shit would be so stubborn. Did he talk in the end?"

�There are some who would say such weak-heartedness was a sign of treason,� Chauvelin continued slowly down the corridor, not looking to see if Teresia followed but knowing she would. If she didn�t, that would be telling too. �M. Bathurst is stubborn and foolish, but I will credit him with the resolve of keeping his tongue. But then that has always been a vice of that vile race, pride before the fall. No matter, I did not go into that cell with high expectation.� He glanced over his shoulder at Teresia, who followed as he expected. There was a furrow marked on her brow.

�What did you expect to get from the encounter, hmmm?� Payment for services rendered? Certainly she hadn�t prepared for blood, because she grew faint as it begun. Or did she have some other agenda? Chauvelin, a man who trusted no one, expected and suspected anything from anyone� especially anyone with a hint of ambition.

"The man has sexual habits that would degrade a common whore. I wanted to see him degraded and humiliated in turn." That wasn't true... she was really indifferent to Bathurst's fate and she had performed far baser charnel acts in the past than anything the poor sap had demanded during that carriage ride. Nevertheless, La Cabarrus knew well enough that, if one wanted to live, one told Citizen Chauvelin what he wanted to hear... the truth was immaterial.

�And were you satisfied with your revenge?� Chauvelin inquired, doubting that Bathurst had come up with anything that was novel to la Cabarrus. She could probably show Bathurst a thing or two that he�d never imagined, which was why Chauvelin so often put those skills to use. �You certainly didn�t stay to see much of it. But, no matter, your beast is vanquished. The Scarlet Pimpernel is to be tried on the 4th and after that my lord Bathurst can be shot down like a dog for all I care. You wish to earn a name, he can be brought to trial where your part in his arrest can be made public. I�m sure that will win you the favour of many in the Assembly.�

This thread is continued from Jail-break

This thread parallels High Stakes and Problems at Home

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