Victory and Defeat

So the madness had begin, Chauvelin noted as his carriage arrived at La Force, pulling in at the very same point by which the Scarlet Pimpernel himself was believed to have entered a few days before only more vigilantly guarded. With little concern for whatever else was going on, Chauvelin raced to the cell holding his prize. Satan himself wouldn�t take Blakeney away before Chauvelin finished him.

The two guards on the door were startlingly attentive, aware of the pressing madness of the situation by the screams outside. A third familiar face was in the act of instructing them as Chauvelin stomped towards them. � I want no less then six men on this door at all times,� Chauvelin barked at the third. �If the prisoners dies so does your share in the reward.� The third man fled to find support, while Chauvelin took his own key and unlocked the door.

The guards had told him the man barely left the cot save to relieve himself any more, weak with hungry and fatigue. A fitting end to a life of extravagance. Chauvelin glare contemptuously down on his most bitter foe � weak and pathetic now. �How the mighty have fallen!� Chauvelin declared coldly as he kicked the cot roughly to awaken the prisoner. �I would have though, Sir Percy, that you would have tried to meet your end with some dignity.� Chauvelin took the seat but the little table as he had a few days before, and gazed down on the pale waxy features of his foe.

�You have had some time to meditate on your conditions, Sir Percy,� Chauvelin stated. �I told you what would happen to your colleague and your wife if you didn�t cooperate. As I recall you told me it wouldn�t have been better for both of us a lot of bother if I had charged her along with Lafierre for treason. Do you still feel that way or are you ready to give me the names I�ve asked for?�

<Percy>

A rough bark, �How the mighty have fallen!� followed by a jolt that nearly toppled him from the cot, awoke Sir Percy. Another day and arriving in even worse circumstances, he groaned. His mouth tasted vile and the sour smell of vomit clung to his clothes, indeed it seemed to have permeated his skin. Chauvelin dropped onto the stool next to the bucket containing the contents of his stomach without flinching. It was as if he didn�t even notice the stench of the place. He scowled at his prisoner.

�You have had some time to meditate . . .� the inspector droned. Damnation, a pity with the way he felt that he hadn�t died before reaching this day.

�I shall . . .� Percy panted, his heart beating in sickening lurches. �I shall give you . . .� His tongue glued to his parched palate. He struggled for enough saliva to moisten it. � . . . shall give you nothing!�

Chauvelin�s expression didn�t change. He�d expected no less, indeed, he seemed prepared for this eventuality. He shrugged as if he intended to get up and leave at once, but no, he lingered for one last moment. He leaned toward the cot and Percy saw him flinch at the abominable stink that rose from the greyish skin of Blakeney as the inspector examined him from sweating brow to absurdly big feet jutting up just beyond the end of the cot.

Pathetic. Chauvelin thought as he gazed down at his defeated foe. At this rate, the Scarlet Pimpernel would be dead before his trial. Then again, the atmosphere in the room was enough to make anyone ill. But then Chauvelin wasn�t here for the ambiance or the company. This was an opportunity to strike back at his enemies � both of them. Sir Percy was too hard-headed a fool to submit when his own life was in peril, it was his wife.

He had watched Beaucarnot silently slipped into the room with Marguerite in tow, his large hand clamped firmly over her mouth. She stared intently at the prone prisoner, her brow wrinkled in confusion. So it would be a surprise for her too. �I shall . . . I shall give you . . . shall give you nothing!� Chauvelin watched the young woman�s expression out of the corner of his eye as Percy delivered his answers � watched as her eyes bulged in horror � and savoring his victory. He thought he heard a soft, paining sound like a gasp or a sob.

Chauvelin leaned over Percy, nose wrinkling in disgust, as his eyes raked over Blakeney predatorily. How easy � how incredibly easy � it would be for Chauvelin place a hand over Blakeney�s nose and mouth and smother the life right out of him. Any resistance would be feeble at best. But the greatest victory would come when Sir Percy Blakeney realized he�d lost everything, when he was lead � a broken man - to the Place du Carousel and longingly waited for the sweet embrace of death to end his misery. Only then would Chauvelin�s revenge be satisfied.

�Is that so?� he whispered beside Percy�s ear. �I told you what would happen to your wife if you refused� and your friend Bathurst after her. Do you wish to say goodbye to your wife now, Sir Percy?�

<Percy>

At the mention of Marguerite, Percy�s eyes misted. �Surely you, as a man, must see that there is no other choice?� His quavering words ended with a parched croak. �Loyalty is all. And honour,� he muttered, doubting anyone could hear the cracked whispers. He rolled onto his side and used both arms to push his heavy head off the cot. His matted hair shifted against his shoulders, coiling in sweat-dampened tendrils about her forehead. As the swirling in his brain ceased, he focused on Chauvelin�s pale eyes, noting that his bruises were fading from purple to translucent green. At least I didn�t go down without a fight, he thought. For all that, it had been a pitiful enough struggle, and once more he wondered what he�d eaten that had made him so desperately ill . . . recalling one of the last things he�d consumed had been the cognac he�d thrown back at Madame Cabarrus�s apartment. Had she deliberately poisoned him?

�Sorry to take so long in rising, Shove-lin. Can�t do a thing wi�out my valet.�

Percy�s dismal attempt at humour did nothing but add another furrow to Chauvelin�s already well-wrinkled brow. �You intend to take me to where you�re holding . . .� � he gasped and began to cough so fiercely, he nearly fell back onto the cot. Chauvelin turned aside, but as Blakeney swayed on his feet, threatening to fall atop the inspector, Chauvelin unwillingly put out both hands to hold Sir Percy upright until he finished hacking. He gave a snivelling wheeze and struggled to stand up straight.

�Demmed fever,� he said and this time the words were clearer. �Sorry to discommode you. I say, you wouldn�t have such a thing as a clothes brush about your person? It�s deuced unkind to present me to my lovely wife in this . . .� he sniffed and winced at his own odour, � . . . in this benighted state.�

Marguerite knew the moment they�d arrived at La Force that she had been brought there to die. An evil looking mob was assembling in front of the prison forcing the carriage to detour and enter through a delivery door in the back. Something of the mob outside carried over to those within, for the guards had a particularly evil glint in their eyes and the prisoners shifting nervously in their cells like caged rabbits before a pack of wolves. They could hear death calling to them from dozens of voices cheering on the violence outside. Not a quick, merciful death as promised by the guillotine � mobs are less compassionate, anyone mounting those steps could tell you. Citoyen Beaucarnot had been ever so kind as to bring her up to speed on what a mob could do on the carriage ride.

Utterly lost in the maze of corridors and halls, she thought for a moment she recognized a familiar doorway or path and wonder if they were heading for Armand�s former cell, but even as she thought she recognized the door with it�s guard, Beaucarnot was pulling her down another path. She guessed their destination the moment she saw the nearly half dozen guards loitering around an open door.

Beaucarnot released her arm only long enough to shift hands so that she know marched before him rather than beside. Then the smell struck her � the wrenching stench of sickness and human waste that called to mind her last visit with Armand. What poor wretch was Chauvelin torturing here? �The Citoyen has something of a surprise for you,� Beaucarnot said with a chuckle that chilled her through. Instinctively, stepped back skittishly, colliding with Beaucarnot�s broad chest. She wanted no part in whatever was in that room. �No need to be shy, petit. Far too late for that.� His finger grazed a bruised cheek. Marguerite shuddered but was pressed ever on. As they drew closer, a voice could be heard, harsh and firm � Chauvelin.

��or are you ready to give me the names I�ve asked for?�

There was no anger in Chauvelin�s voice, barely sounded concerned for that matter, in fact he wore the slightest of smirk�s as he acknowledged Marguerite�s interest. But it was not acknowledgement, rather a signal for Beaucarnot to clamp a rough palm over her mouth. She understood it was the prisoner he�d wanted her to see. She stared at the limp, huddled figure on the cot � too big to be Armand (thank god!). Could it be...? As a queer sense of familiarity gnawed at the back of her brain, hints and clues began to crystallize � some meshing others grating. But this wasn�t Andrew Ffoulkes! His face was turned away, but the hair was all wrong. Her brain was refusing to accept certain glaring facts.

�I shall . . . I shall give you . . . shall give you nothing!� Marguerite felt the energy drain from her limbs, felt her knees go weak, as the truth snapped into place, clarifying everything. Weak with grief and anxiety, Marguerite might have collapsed from shock if not for the strong arms supporting her. Percy! She would know his voice anywhere. Oh, god! Oh god! It was he she had betrayed. He who suffered at her hand.

There was a malicious glint in Chauvelin�s eye as he leaned over and poured his venomous words into Percy�s ear � words Marguerite�s sharp ears could not decipher, nor the reply. Whatever the words were, they were enough to mobilize the tire, weak limbs which struggled to rise, Marguerite watched in horror as the result of days worth of deprivation and want � all her fault!

�Sorry to take so long in rising, Shove-lin. Can�t do a think wi�out my valet.� Percy to the end, only he would have the audacity to be so flippant in the face of death. She wanted to go to him and help him, but Beaucarnot held her fast. No sooner was he on his feet than the attempt at a few words had him hacking and coughing like an old man, like Armand had. She was numbed by the realization that Percy wasn�t merely sick � he was dying.

�Demmed fever. Sorry to discommode you. I say, you wouldn�t have such a thing as a clothes brush about your person? It�s deuced unkind to present me to my lovely wife in this . . .� Percy sniffed and winced at his own odour, � . . . in this benighted state.� He hadn�t seen her, delirious with hunger.

Marguerite tugged herself free of Beaucarnot�s grasp � perhaps he�d just released � hurrying to Percy�s side and taking him by the arm. God, his hands were cold! She slipped her arm around his waist to support some of his weight (if he fell he�d take them both down) and guided him into the chair Chauvelin had recently occupied. He needed to save all the strength he had. She took one of his big hands and rubbed it between her two, hoping to get some warmth into them.

She looked hopefully into a cup on the table beside and wrinkled her nose at the life growing within. �For pity sake, give him some water!� she demanded. Beaucarnot snorted. A day ago, Chauvelin might have acquiesced, might have pitied her for that insane crush he held � but no longer. Now she could not be purchase his life with her own. She had to pit her wit against his.

Why would Chauvelin keep Percy alive so long? The abduction of Armand, holding her, it was all an effort to control Percy. She recalled his emphasis on waiting a few days more. A few days more, enough to sensationalize a trial or get back something stolen. �He�s dying. If you don�t give him some water he won�t live to see one of those mockeries of justice that you call trials.�

<Percy>

Through the buzzing in his brain, Percy felt hands as gentle as butterfly wings on his arms. He turned his head slowly, wincing at the dizziness that erupted in the movement, then stiffened. Unbelievable! No, not unbelievable - he remembered now. Marguerite had followed him to France, unaware that he intended to save Armand. She had come to rescue him herself, and walked right into Chauvelin's trap. Silly, romantic creature, she pressed him to her as if she might support a man only an inch or two less than a full foot taller than she. She smiled. And smiled further at the ridiculous situation. God in heaven, she loved him! It was like a shower of leaves striking him, this glorious idea that, in spite of every hurtful, prideful, beastly thing he'd done, she loved him!

In a flurry of dizzying movement he was made to sit. He was reeling from the exertion, struggling to focus on her intent green eyes while she chafed his big hands between her tiny ones. Percy tried to conceal his shuddering weakness, fighting to stay upright on the chair. She looked at him and shook her head sadly.

"Do not fret yourself," he murmured, "for I have all that I desire in your dear presence. Feel how you have warmed me? I'm better now than I have been for days."

His words did nothing to convince her, however. She was looking at him with a strange expression, one he couldn't fathom. There was about her an inner strength more impressive than her feminine beauty. Her hands that seemed too soft for serious labour were competent as she worked to return the circulation to Percy's numb fingers. She turned head to face Chauvelin.

'For pity sake, give him some water!' Marguerite hissed in a surge of scalding fury, but her demand was met by a sound that was something between a laugh and a hiccup. For all it was derisively intended, that sound galvanized her into action. Slapping her hand to her hat, she set the brim at a most sobering angle, shadowing her eyes in a way Percy knew said she meant business. Her carriage was sublime - he'd always thought so - especially the subtle movements of her head. It was as if the prettiness of her face and hair detracted from the logical creature residing inside the too-perfect figure. Her dark brown lashes she wielded as weapons as she gazed up in stony silence at Chauvelin and the look she gave him must certainly have made him stop and rethink himself. It seemed to Percy that Chauvelin actually took a step backward as Marguerite skewered him with a glare meant to scorch his skin. It was a credit to the man that he hardly flinched at all. Percy watched his adam's apple bob, and sensed Chauvelin's discomfort. 'He's dying,' Marguerite advised Chauvelin in her chilliest tone. 'If you don't give him some water he won't live to see one of those mockeries you call trials.'

When she turned back to Percy, he regarded her with sudden absorption for, as she had turned her face back into the light, there was some trick of shadow that caught his eye. He saw now what he had missed before - the purpling beneath her eyebrow, the subtle swelling along her cheekbone. Now there was strength in the arms that had hung limp before and Percy reached up to touch his wife's jaw. Saw her flinch as she averted her eyes. What had she paid for Armand's release?

"Rest easy, my dear," he said in a tone gone husky with a mingling of rage and hurt. "At the very least I secured your brother's freedom. Had you remained in England you would have him now safe in your arms."

Then, as there was no answering warmth in the timid eyes that met his, he stilled, puzzled, until he thought further: *what price had she paid?*

Suddenly, there was a change. As startling as a flight of birds taking off, Percy saw the difference in Chauvelin's expression before he observed the corresponding reflection in Marguerite. There was a curious sense of the space not being big enough to contain all the emotions in the room - Beaucarnot had turned livid and looked like a balloon ready to burst. Chauvelin was cool, a busy hand motioning even before his words sputtered out, 'Very well, madam. Beaucarnot, fetch the prisoner water. After all it is just payment for services rendered.' *Water*. The word shivered in the air until Percy could almost taste it. Oh the anticipation! Beaucarnot filled a quarter of a glass, but Chauvelin, with an imperious jerk of the chin, demanded more. Beaucarnot filled the glass, then moved across the room with his hand thrust forward, toward Blakeney, who slid forward on the seat in anticipation. The glass was heavy in his hand, and cold against his skin. Water, clear and cool, from an earthenware jug. Oh, heaven! The taste of it was an assault on his parched tongue. His teeth ached with it. His throat jerked to swallow. He struggled to hold each mouthful in his mouth as long as possible, even as his belly screamed for the sweet fullness of cool water. As he swallowed the last drops, Percy became aware of a heaviness . . . a sense of claustrophobia surrounding him. A pregnant stillness had upset the balance in the room. He intercepted a cold retort from Chauvelin sent visually to Marguerite; the color creeping into her cheeks suggested . . . Suggested that the inspector's words had been the least welcome in a wholly stressful conversation.

Glancing up, Percy caught the knowing smirk on Beaucarnot's face - and a self-contained sort of exultation in Chauvelin's that needed very little interpretation. Percy blinked. Beside him Marguerite, red as a tomato, seemed to turn in on herself. *What price had she paid?* It was as if the words screamed in his mind. And he knew. Of course, knowing Chauvelin as he did, it was a wonder he hadn't seen this checkmate move from the first. Perhaps it was his own lack of care, of questioning, of diligence, that had forced the ferret-like inspector to parade Marguerite before him like a red flag before a bull. This was why she wore her hat tilted forward, her face partially veiled by the gauzy veil pinned to its brim. Percy saw the tremor in the fingers she twisted together against her skirts, the nails clawing her palms so deeply it made him wince.

He gained his feet without thinking, pushed Marguerite aside. Tottered in shambling steps across the floor . . . and got less than half-way. Marguerite came up behind him to tug at his sleeve in warning, Beaucarnot stepped forward, interrupting his passage with a surly look, and Chauvelin, himself, came to rest toe to toe with Blakeney in three quick strides.

Blakeney intended to spit in the face of his enemy, but, god save him, his mouth had gone dry, was so dry there was nothing to spit. He began to raise his arm to strike, only to have Marguerite latch onto it with both hers. Beaucarnot took the other arm - Blakeney was held prisoner between them. He was so close to Chauvelin he could make out a vast greenish-grey welt shadowing the inspector's face from ear to chin despite a day's growth of beard's attempt to camouflage the damage.

Percy's eyebrows cocked in wonder, his lips parted in a dry, silent gasp. Marguerite had fought him. Earned her bruises. Perhaps - on the outward chance - perhaps she had won the battle, too.

Chauvelin was trying to bait Percy, Marguerite realized the fact far too late. She had believed at first the meeting was intended to further punish her for her supposed treachery � a vain supposition - but that diabolical brain had crueler ideas in mind. She was no longer a figure of importance so much as a puppet � and playing the part too well. Chauvelin taunted her openly, relying on Percy�s perception more than Marguerite had. The water was not kindnesses so much as a necessity to restored Percy�s senses and thereby elicit the reaction Chauvelin desired. And her care, his too keen eyes were already picking out the evidence of what had taken place between her and Chauvelin. She wanted to protect him from Chauvelin and the truth.

Pride was everything to Percy, Chauvelin knew as much. It did not surprise the special agent as much as it had Marguerite for Percy to bound out of his seat and lurch across the room in a fury. Marguerite was effortlessly shoved aside to clear the path his path.

�Percy!� she grabbed at his arm frantically. �He�ll kill you!� Beaucarnot intercepted the charging giant, but this was the moment Chauvelin was waiting for.

�I told you the price of defying me,� Chauvelin replied, voice dripping with venom. �...There is much worse in store for her and your friend Bathurst if you do not cooperate.� The look he gave Percy was pure hatred. He hated her, hated them both. Finally she understood. She had performed as he wished her to, as had Percy. It was all scripted out in Chauvelin�s mind. Ever since Beaucarnot brought him word of the riots. Why bring her here? Why bring her to Percy? It was more than a threat he wanted to make, it was murder.

The thinly veiled hints, the insults, the threats � fuel to the fire. He wanted Percy to live, but still wanted to lash out at him, to punish him and prove the seriousness of the situation. After all, he still had Lord Bathurst. He would let the mob do what he had wanted to do from the moment she betrayed him. He was provoking Percy to give himself an excuse.

�You have made point, messier,� Marguerite replied coldly. �There is no reason to continue taunting him.�

<Percy>

Through the fog of fever Percy saw the face of his father more than once, and at least once heard his mother laugh. Disconcerting! He knew he was going mad, overheated with fever and parched with lack of water. His brain was on fire, and he was incapable of a single logical thought. Sometimes he heard Tony's voice - that high-pitched boyish laugh! - and others, he felt certain he heard Chauvelin. He even talked to the spectre that was Chauvelin and felt as if it answered.

Cruel it was, though, to feel Marguerite so close - close enough to touch! He knew - knew! - he was lying on his deathbed, yet it felt as if he heard Marguerite's dear voice, as if he felt her touch.

He'd watched his mother grow mad as a hatter. He'd heard her tinkling bell-like laughter turn to screaming madness and feared the same had come to him. He heard her voice crying, "Gerry! Gerry, they're coming!" He remembered climbing up the tree as far as he could and clinging to the branches with fear hugging his skin and hair as he tried to outrun his mother's horrified screaming.

'There is no reason to continue taunting him,' said the voice of lovely Marguerite, whose image was brighter than a snowdrop in February.

Percy felt as if the voice were real. Damnation, but it felt as if his wife were standing right next to him. He reached out to touch her and his stomach clenched with spasm. His arms moved automatically to clutch, and he doubled over, then fell back onto the narrow cot. He felt as if he was going to lose the contents of his bowels, and shuddered with a sudden chill, but there was nothing left to lose. His stomach gripped, wrenched, then growled like a strangled cat.

As the spasm released, Percy heard a very determined, Chauvelin-sounding voice say, 'You have five minutes to say goodbye, Marguerite,' and something in his brain unfolded.

"Lady Blakeney," he croaked. "I dreamed Lady Blakeney walked along the Seine with me and the flowers died for shame at her incomparable beauty." He coughed, gasped for breath, and continued.

"I have wronged the fairest lady in all the land, but one thing I have given her with marriage is property. Land. I will die here, I know . . ."

Percy's eyes had fixed on the barred window, high up in the wall, where a tail of light smeared against the stones. There was something in the shadow that felt like ripples on the Thames. Perhaps he was at home, lying on the grassy bank at his house in Richmond. Perhaps he was as insane as his mother was.

"But Margot is safe," he said and his voice rasped dryly. "I have married her in every legal form. Catholic and Protestant services. The land, the money - everything goes to her. Darling love - do beware of old Exeter. He will make it unpleasant for you; he always meant me to marry a title to secure the fortune . . . probably for his own family . . . but there's nothing he can do. It's all legal. It's yours. Be happy and free, my darling. Happy. Free." He coughed again, his dying breath stealing the last of his words.

It was a struggle to stand firm against Chauvelin, while the one she loved best was dying before her eyes. She wanted to curl into a ball and weep � but what good would weeping do? It would give Chauvelin the satisfaction that he had bested them both and she�d be damned if she gave him that degree of satisfaction. As she was framing her retort, she felt Percy buckle beside her. She grabbed for him, but he, even in his emaciated state, was too heavy for her and crumpled like a rag doll in the cot beside them.

That had been what Chauvelin was waiting for, that sign of weakness. �You have five minutes to say goodbye, Marguerite,� he announced with an air of finality, as if he could tell with a look how long it would take Percy to expire. Beaucarnot chuckled as he followed and closed the door behind them.

Alone. Alone with the husband she betrayed and abandoned. She sent a pray prayer to heaven to give her strength, then turned to face her husband. The fever and lack of sustenance had driven had gone to his brain, as he addressed the figments in his head � she wondered if he remembered she was there at all or whether he had dismissed the last few minutes as more illusions produced by his addled mind.

She took the glass and pitcher off the table � thank the good lord he�d left them! � and knelt beside the cot. She wouldn�t let him die. She was determined not to let him die. As loathed as she was to touch the filthy blanket bunched up in a corner of the bed, she pulled it over his feet and legs, then unwrapped the shawl draped around her shoulders and covered him up to his neck.

�� I will die here, I know . . ." he gasped, he�s voice breaking on the words.

�Stop talking like that, Percy!� she said firmly. �You will live! You must!� She poured out another glass of water, remembering as she did so the roll Fleurette smuggled her in the shawl. She couldn�t simply feed it to him in this state. Breaking off a piece she soaked it in the water of the pitcher.

"�Be happy and free, my darling�" he croaked as she heave his head up and put the rim of the glass to his lips.

�Drink, darling,� she whispered. �You must drink. It will make you feel better. Then perhaps we can put something more solid in your stomach.� He drank, occasionally coughing and sputtering so that she had to stop and wait to give him more. �You must get better, my love. You must rally your strength to free yourself.�

As soon as the door closed behind him, Chauvelin caught Beaucarnot by the shoulder and pulled him close. �The former Compte de Lancre and his family were shaved by the national razor this morning, if I am not very much mistaken. Are there any other prisoners in that cell now?� Chauvelin murmured.

�Not as of yet, citoyen,� Beaucarnot replied, not thinking to lower his voice.

�You will escourt Lady Blakeney there and put two guards on the door. She must not to escape,� Chauvelin insisted. �Then you will return here to protect the prisoner.�

�The Lancres�cell?� It was a death sentence even with an armed guard.

�She must not to escape,� Chauvelin repeated coldly. �Our highest priority is the Scarlet Pimpernel. He is unfit to help himself and may the devil take me if I�ll let anyone else.� Beaucarnot nodded and Chauvelin began to pace before the door, checking his pocket each quarter of a minute as if time might magically leap forward. He wanted her dead as much as his wanted Blakeney humiliated. Each moment till those goals were reached ticked by with agonizing slowness. He spent the last quarter of an hour simply staring at the watch face, until the moment came and the doors were pulled open. �Your time has expired, madame.�

Beaucarnot stalked in and haul the lady roughly to her feet. Pulling her along after him. As she passed, she stared daggers at Chauvelin while he remained unaffected. �Good bye, Marguerite,� he replied coldly, watching her until she and Beaucarnot disappeared down the hall. Chauvelin stepped back into the room and stood over the unconscious figure of Sir Percy. For a second, he wondered whether the man was dead, but hold his hand beneath Percy�s nose he could feel the shallow breaths.

�Pity you are not lucid enough to appreciate my victory over you,� Chauven spat.

Marguerite was filled with an eerie sense of deja-vu as she hopelessly attempted to nurture Percy back to health, just as she tried to help her brother mere days before. Her heart was scarcely able to cope with the burden of watching the two people she loved most in the world fade away before her. Her movement were mechanical as her brain chanted the litany: not death� not death� As if wishing and prayers could change the world. Please, not death!

The minutes were devoured quickly, as they always are when one wants them to linger, and too soon Marguerite heard the rattle of the latch. She placed the remains of the bread roll in Percy�s cold, nerveless hand and tucked the shawl tighter around him. Given the chance, she would have died in his stead, but more likely neither who live through another day.

�Your time has expired, Madame,� Chauvelin intoned ominously.

In a final gesture, Marguerite brushed the sweat-damped hair from his forehead, kissed his feverish brow. �Goodbye, my love�� She wanted to say more, but at that moment Beacarnot yanked her violently to her feet by the arm, hauling her to her feet and marching out the door pass the glowering Chauvelin.

They were around the corner before Beaucarnot loosen his grip, slowing down to take his time in antagonizing the poor woman. �You haven�t long to wait, the mob will be here soon enough. I would have thought you would have *convinced* Chauvelin to have mercy,� he sneered. Failing to get significant reaction, Beaucarnot continued. �I�ll wager he�ll go like your brother.� That got her attention. �Didn�t Chauvelin tell you how the Scarlet Pimpernel was caught? The damned fool thought to smuggle the boy out dressed as a soldier, but your brother got as far as the end of the corridor and kneeled over dead. The ruse was up and the spy caught.� Marguerite slowed in shocked. �I suppose he hadn�t wagered on how ill the boy was. I wager he knows better now.� As much as she wished to believe otherwise, she couldn�t picture Armand walking out of La Force. They would be noticed if Percy hoisted Armand over his shoulder. Percy sacrificed his life to save Armand and failed.

Beaucarnot ushered her into an empty cell and closed the door behind her. She could still hear his voice through the door, but she did not think of him � her thoughts were on another. She knelt down, folded her hands together and prayed for the life of her husband. Prayed for a miracle to save a good and decent man.