Players:
Marguerite, Lady Blakeney
- Cyrrise
<Marguerite>
Marguerite had seen little in the hour long drive to Richmond, an occasional glimpse of pale fields and the silver serpentine river when bits of moonlight broke through the clouded sky and the ominous shadows of passing trees. Perhaps a view would have made the trip more bearable, but it was not to be. There in the dark carriage, Marguerite felt more alone than she had in she had been in all he life. The first certain landmark she saw since leaving Shipwash�s was the massive gates leading to her home� Percy�s home. She must stop thinking she belonged there or it might be harder to leave. Instead she watched as the gardens came into view, scantily lit by the lights from the house, then the towering house � the prison she would soon escape � that is what she must remind herself.
As soon as the carriage ground to a halt, Henshaw was in the door and setting the step before offering her his hand to help her descend. But rather than going up the steps and through the Elizabethan entrance hall to escape the cold night, Marguerite was drawn the gardens, clutching her cloak around her as she skirted the house. Of all places on the estate it was the garden that cherished most, the garden offered her a place for peace and reflection. The soothing scents of heliotrope, jasmine, and herbs, the picturesque rose bower � Percy�s attempt to replicate the beauty he�d shared with her that day at Saint-Cyr�s� and the memories. She remembered the first night she�d come to England, the moon full and bright and Percy�s arms so warm about her (he still loved her then)� then there was the night he called her a whore, it was never as tranquil after that � tainted by that hurtful memory. Tonight the garden reminded her more of the latter, the cold wind and clouded sky, her heart once again broken, only it was someone else who Percy wrapped his coat around � someone else who was comforted in his arm. Why?! Who could love him as much as she did?
Exhausted, heartbroken and utterly overwhelmed, Marguerite staggered to a stone bench near a chestnut tree which faced the river, more heard than seen. It was all too much! Armand�s life in deadly peril, the betrayal (both hers and Percy�s), and then the reminder of the greatest sin on her soul. If only Percy were here she would have confessed to him everything at that vulnerable moment, but then wasn�t his betrayal at the very heart of her misery? This place had too many memories � there was not a room in there that did not have memories of him. Tears, unbidded, slid down her cheeks as she shivered and hugged herself against the chill night. She knew she should turn in, but would not give that unwelcoming household a source for more gossip � it was no business of theirs that Percy broke her heart. Besides, after the events of this night, could she ever find rest and sleep?
She heard a firm step upon the crisp gravel and the rustle of a branch brushed aside and her heart skipped a beat. Percy? Had he really come home? She leaned forward to catch a glimpse of her visitor when Anne Davis appeared looking irritated and put out. How foolish of her to have thought otherwise.
�You should turn in, my lady,� Davis stated as though she were instructing a child � there was also a note of contempt in her voice when she said my lady. �It�s far too cold out tonight, you�ll catch your...� she stopped abruptly as though she had only just seen the tear streaked cheeks and shiney eyes, then awkwardly fumbled out a handkerchief so that Marguerite could dry her eyes. �We can enter the house through the library, you�d run into fewer servants that way, keep your head high and there will be less talk.� Marguerite blinked in confusion. �If you stay out here Jamieson or Sanders might come out looking for you, and heavens knows Sanders can�t keep his mouth shut.�
Marguerite nodded in understanding and rose to follow the advice. So, Davis had a heart after all. Did she feel sorry for Marguerite, or did she too know what it was like to lament over an unfaithful husband?
The shouting and cheering and caterwauling merged into a solid wall of noise, with an occasional phrase distinguish itself from the rest of the din. She felt nigh on swooning with the heat of the sun beating down directly on her head and the crush of bodies around her - evidently it was a price some were willing to pay to be so close. Shielding her eyes with her hand, she looked around jealously at the others, who more wisely took seats under scraps of shade (likely had to arrive mighty early to obtain them), those perched on ledges and carts and did not stay on throbbing feet for hours, and those who leaned out of window sills and had all the luxuries of home while they took in the spectacle. It looked as those all of Paris had turned out today. Most spoke to their neighbor, a few watched the men on the platform set up for the show, there were even a few old crones with their knitting work in lap. How had her people become so monstrous!? There was something bestial about the lot of them, perhaps it was how many shifted about in that predatory matter suggesting they were preparing to pounce... or was it the heat that disfigured and twisted their faces so that they took on a less than human. In another moment the illusion was gone.
It seemed as thought they had been standing there forever, waiting and waiting and perspiring and waiting. Did anyone know who was coming? how long until it started? She tried questioning sour-faced matron to her right, but could not make out the answer and something in the woman's _expression convinced her that it was best she hadn't. She turned to her left to repeat the question to the tall scarecrow on her other side, when the crowd was thrown into pandemonium and all heads whipped to the point on the left. It was then that she noticed the path that cut through the crowd to the platform, but then again wasn�t that why she had fought for this spot? She craned her neck to see over the heads that blocked her view, but it was of little good when every other person there did the same exact thing. The one thing that was clear was that the object of their attention was coming closer. She stood on tip toe as it drew near, but was foiled again as it had selected to move around to the other side of the platform. No matter, she knew what it was: a crude tumbril, with a handful of helpless souls inside. They were the stars of this show - all of France had turned out to see them.
Presently, a small dark figure rose to the stage clad in deadly black and grinning like the mischievous Puck - Chauvelin! His features seemed skewed somehow, slightly distorted so that it took on an impish quality� or was that another trick of the sun? The crowd cheered even louder as they saw him (our hero!) and he, in turned, bowed deeply, accepting their adoration before resuming his role � he knew how to work an audience. In the manner of a well rehearsed magician, Chauvelin plucked a scroll of paper out of thin air (how did he do that?), and as he begin to read, the paper unwound itself until it was so long that it spilled over the side of the platform to the laughter and applause of the mob. �By order of the � for the crimes of � and treasons against the People�s Republic�� She could only catch a few words here and there above the noise � hard to see how anyone could have heard a thing in that racket. Chauvelin then lowered his scroll and gestured abruptly to everyone�s attention to the figure mounting the step, the audience gazed on in rapt anticipation. Beautifully timed, the man came into view just as Chauvelin announced the name, �Armand Saint-Just.�
�Armand!� she screamed, but the sound was drowned out by the roar of the audience. Her worst fears come true. �Armand! Armand!� She screamed his name over and over as she futilely fought her way to the platform. Clawing, shoving, she could get no closer. Armand looked a pathetic site, battered and bruised as he have been the night Percy brought him home after Saint-Cyr... she shuddered at the thought. Despite his injury, Armand stood tall and proud, uncomplaining as his hands were bound behind him and he was lower into that abominable machine. �Armand!� The blade flew through the air and landed with a thud. She grabbed at her chest feeling as thought it was her heart the knife had sliced through. Armand, her brother, whose life she valued more than her own. Gone. The one person in the world that had always been there for her... gone. She felt numb and cold, surely she would have collapse to the ground if she hadn�t been propped up by those pressing in on all side. She was all alone in this world.
Chauvelin stooped over into the basket and caught up the head, held it aloft to the cheering crowd as the trunk was removed. �Death to traitors to the Republic!� More cheers. She screamed and screamed. She had been too late, had done nothing to save him. She had as good as killed him.
Her screams drew Chauvelin�s attention from the stage. He dropped the head back into the basket and stared at her so intently that the crowd between them parted before his gaze. �Before our next execution begins, I must acknowledge, the woman who made his capture possible� one of France�s greatest patriots: Marguerite Saint-Just!� The look in his eyes as he stared into hers was frightening, chilling. He motioned for her to approach, although her primary instinct was to put as much distance between them and though she did not feel herself move forward, it seemed that the space between them closed until she was beside him on the stage. �Let this glittering jewel serve as a model for all good patriots of the Republic, for she is one of the greatest assets to our country for without her aid we might never have captured France�s greatest enemy� (more applause)� it is she who has brought before us that hated foreign dog, who has time and again cheated the People of their justice� the Scarlet Pimpernel!� He ended in the same flourished gesture he had just made as Armand had appeared. Marguerite whirled around, dread filling her as she expected to see Sir Andrew Ffoulkes appear. But it was not Andrew who took the stage...
A sharp pain shot through Marguerite�s heart as she saw the tall figure who boldly mounted the steps, scrutinizing the crowd through his quizzing glass, a bemused smile on his face. �Percy!� He should be in England� anywhere but here. �You�re mistaken Chauvelin! Percy is not the Scarlet Pimpernel! You must not kill him!� Marguerite implored, tugging on Chauvelin�s sleeve to gain his attention. �You have sentenced the wrong man! I beg you not to kill him!�
�It was your evidence that brought him to justice, my dear,� Chauvelin replied coolly, staring coldly down his nose at her. Marguerite stepped back from him horrified � what evidence? Surely Chauvelin had gone mad, how could he image Percy the Scarlet Pimpernel. It was inconceivable!
For his part, Percy did not act the part of a condemned man. The crowd cheered and he inclined his head to acknowledge. Why shouldn�t they cheer? He was dazzling in crimson and cream with gold threads in his crisp new coat that made him positively sparkle. He looked as thought this was no more threatening then a night theater or society ball � as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Did he not see the blade looming beside him? �Percy, don�t you see that they are to going to kill you?!� Marguerite pressed upon him. �You must fight! Please, Percy� you must try to escape!�
�Lud, m�dear! This fit is most unseemly,� Percy remarked, coolly. �There are appearances to be maintained� even in your god-forsaken country.� Percy swatted away her clinging arm and swept past her to address Chauvelin. �Chauvelin, I have but one request.� Chauvelin folded his arms over his chest and raised a quizzical brow. �Allow me a moment with the woman I love.� The little revolutionary glared at the over tall baronet for half a minute, then shot a look at her and nodded.
One last moment. Such a short time to convey all that was in her heart � to bid farewell to the only man she had loved. Her heart still reeled from the shock of losing Armand and now Percy... dearest Percy. If the Heavenly Father had any mercy he would spare her poor misguided husband or strike her dead before the shock wore off and her heart crumbled with grief. She stepped forward to embrace her husband one last time� but Percy eyes were not on her. Percy stared passed her as another figure took the stage, his glowing in rapturous delight. Marguerite recognized that _expression, it was the same look that he once had for her alone. But now it was a small curvaceous woman, beautiful and mysterious, who held his heart - took Marguerite a moment to recognize the woman as Bathurst�s little Spaniard. She took his long slender hand and smiled enchantingly up into his eyes. What was she doing here? Marguerite stared in confusion as Percy, wrapping his arms around her waist, stooped to kiss her. A long passionate kiss (every moment of which sliced Marguerite ever deeper). Percy reluctantly broke away, caressed her cheek and shared with her an intense, meaningful look that conveyed all the things there was no time to say. Wordlessly the little marquise help Percy out of his coat and Percy walked proudly to the guillotine, and his fate.
�Chauvelin, I beg you spare him! Percy, fight for your life!� Marguerite screamed and fought against arms that restrained her, trying to fight her way to her doomed husband. �Percy! PERCY!� She saw the blade fall, slowly � life had slowed in that moment � and heard rather than saw its abrupt stop. The cheers were deafen. Chauvelin�s arms were raised in victory. �Murderer!� she screamed at Chauvelin, an accusation that penetrated the roar.
��Murderer�, my dear?� Chauvelin loomed over her, his voice smooth as silk. �But these are not my victims� they are yours.� With that he snatched up the basket and spilled its horrible content before her. Heads! Their eyes opened wide. Staring. So many of them. She recognized Saint-Cyr and her brood, a child who face she�d seen in a locket� Percy�s came to a stop right before her knees and she screamed and scream, felt strong arms shake her, and a horrible stench filled her nostrils.
�Oh, for Heaven�s sake wake up!� Marguerite was still screaming as her eyes fluttered open to Mrs. Davis�s desperate attempts to rouse her.
�It was a dream..?� Marguerite sat up, pulling the cover around her and wiping her tear streaked cheeks with her sleeve.
�Sanders, thought you were being murdered,� Mrs. Davis jerked her head at the face peeking through the door. �I�ve sent Jane Embrel to fetch something for your nerves.�
�No� thank you� there is no need,� Marguerite said. �Has Percy come home?�
�Not yet, milady.�
�Inform me if... when he arrives. I�ll be alright.� Mrs. Davis looked doubtful, but retreated. Marguerite fell back against her pillow, remembering that she cried herself to sleep. This would be the last time she would allow herself to cry herself to sleep.
It was nearly hour before Marguerite could shoo Mrs. Davis, who tried plying her charge with laudanum and all matter of calming agents. Marguerite had waved aside Davis�s cure-alls (she needed all of her senses sharp) and pacified the woman with the promise of no more screams that night � a promise easily kept for who could return to sleep after such a nightmare?
And what a nightmare! It was all the things that she had feared most given form � and so real! She spent several minutes trying to rationalize that dream. Armand, Chauvelin, and the guillotine were the most straight forward � it was the picture she saw every time Chauvelin pushed his threats. Her agitated mind had over dramatized it, probably merged it with some play she�d done ages ago. The dream was probably further influenced by her guilt at betraying Andrew Ffoulkes (his life was now in as much danger as Armand�s) and her little incident with Sir Philip Glynde � lord, she hoped he was no gossip-monger! Chauvelin had been figuring larger and larger in her thoughts these days and was he not the ring master of all this tragedy? It would doubtlessly give him no end of delight to know that he was in her dreams. Twisted little man.
Then there was Percy... Why she dreamt him the Scarlet Pimpernel was a further stretch, maybe it was for all her worry for him, those many weeks without not word... or her worry of his infidelity. The image of him kissing Bathurst�s Spanish tart continued to torture her, probably because she was certain that that was what he was doing at that very moment... well perhaps not with the Marquise de Fountenay, if Bathurst had a say in the matter, but there was some woman out there who was the fortunate recipient of her husband�s favours. The Marquise just happened to stand out as a new face, a beautiful one at that, and just the type wrap a man around her little finger. Strange disturbing dream. Even now it plagued her as she lay in the center of her bed, fiercely wiping at the tears that streamed down her cheeks. Percy was with another woman, there were no doubts about it now. He was probably kissing *her* now. Loving *her*.
Perhaps it was best that she found out now so that there was less inclination to stay. Why stay when he brushed off the one demand she made of him? Why stay when all they did was fight with each other, tear at each other? Why stay? Forgive duty and obligation, what was left except... except that she loved him. Loved him despite everything and if she stayed they would only end up destroying each other. Marguerite got up, pulled on her wrap, and sat down at her secretary. If there was ever a time to be honest, to be open, it was now. There would be no other chances...
My Dearest Percy,
You have broken my heart! I trusted you and you betrayed me! You yourself said that there were no secrets among the aristocracy � did you not think I would hear? Can you imagine how my heart broke when I heard it? Sir Percy Blakeney in the garden with another woman � how she triumphantly wore your coat shoulders as you returned from your liaison in the garden! Right under my nose! Do you love her? Is she more beautiful, more graceful, wittier, wiser? Is she the one who keeps you away so long, with her sweet lips and tender embrace? My heart aches with the thought that even now you may be in her arms. You accuse me of affairs! And with Chauvelin of all people! How could you say such things when you know how that man frightens me? How could you think it?
Percy of all people should have realized her dislike of Chauvelin. He had been there - had he noticed nothing? She was trembling as she wrote, tears streaming down her cheeks � there was no one to hide them from here � somehow writing these things made them all the more real. She, in part, blamed herself for Percy�s infidelity. If only she had been more open and honest, she thought guiltily, about Saint-Cyr, about her feelings... maybe Percy sensed she held back some piece of her heart. There was a time when she believed she had all of his.
I do not know which the greater mistake is: allowing myself to fall in love with you or not realizing it sooner. I have allowed love to make me the fool. I can�t help but think that if I had told you everything from the beginning that everything would have worked out for the best� if I had not lied to myself about my feelings for you. I know now that I have loved you far longer than I would allow myself to believe and in that I am a fool. But what could I do? All my life I have seen love�s victims, have felt the agony of losing those I cared for most� I tried to close my heart. What could I do? I had to protect myself. But then I met you and� and now that I have let love in it destroys me.
Am I a fool for feeling betrayed when you act as any man would? But then I thought you different. I thought you of all men had seen beyond physical beauty and come to love me, not the actress � me. I thought that you would continue to love me even after my beauty faded. I believe once that you were all mine, how did I loose your love? I see you so rarely now. You are gone so long that I wonder sometimes if you will ever return. And then you return and we quarrel, we make love, and then you go away again...
Her vision blurred, she fumbled blindly for a handkerchief, tipping over miscellaneous trinkets, toppling leaflets in her search, wincing at every sound. When she found the handkerchief and wiped her eyes, tried to right the damage she had done. She pushed the leaflet aside, and made a grab for the weightiest object to balance them � a porcelain and box with delicate pink roses. Opening it up, within lay a rose, it�s red petals blackened with age, the stem brown and withered, but still intact. It was the rose Percy had given her before she kissed him for the first time. Holding it in her hand it felt like old parchment, if she closed her hand it would crumble to dust. She hadn�t looked at it in ages and yet, it marked the first time she felt she had met a man who understood her, amazing how had lasted all this time.
She knew he loved her. She could picture him so clearly, as if he were with her now, his strong arms around her. A trick of the mind. The memory of the night before, those few moments... within moments they were arguing again. If only he had listened to her, things wouldn�t have ended like this. �I can't bear the idea of your giving me permission to find a less cruel wife when the torture I endure at your hands is my greatest pleasure� I will lie down and let you take your mark - I deserve it! Kick me. Brutalize me in any way you wish, but I beg of you don't say you'll leave!� His words were heart felt, each weighing upon her. She remembered too how he was willing to take the blame for the problems in their marriage, yet she was as much to blame.
Perhaps it is for the best that you have found another so that she might comfort you when I am gone. But you must not believe that I leave because I do not love you. Believe me when I say I have loved no one else. But there are things I must do. So much has happened. I fear you will hate me with you come to know what I have done, but I need you to understand. I will tell of how great a fool I have been, a story I should have told you long ago��
And so she wrote down the story of that winter night at Saint-Cyr when she made the biggest mistake of her life � how Simone tormented her and Chauvelin pursued her and all she could think of was him, until she had read those lines of that letter and everything changed.
Chauvelin promised no harm would come to them and I was fool to believe him. I did not tell you immediately because I worried that they might think you a part of that conspiracy, then I did not tell you because I did not want you to worry, I thought I could do something to mend the harm I had done, I spoke with everyone I knew, but then I wake on the first morning of our marriage to find them dead. It was utter torture to watch how much pain I had caused you. How could I have told you then than mine was the hand that destroyed them? Perhaps it was fear of losing you that held my tongue.
I have lived with the burden of their deaths in my heart ever since, have been haunted by them in my dreams, and will do so until the day I die.
You see I am a wicked woman, but I fear I am guilty of much more. Not the infidelities you accused me of, but of a far greater treason. I have betrayed a good and honest man this very night. I helped Chauvelin discover the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Your friend Sir Andrew Ffoulkes is the Scarlet Pimpernel and Chauvelin knows it...�
She wrote the events of the past month, how Chauvelin harassed her to spy for him and she refused but when he told her that Armand�s life hung in the balance what could she do? There was no one to turn to until it was too late.
I tell you this because you must know! I fear Chauvelin may try his tactics on you, use your love for me and loyalty to Armand to help him betray Sir Andrew � but you must not let him! Not for me and not for Armand. I go myself to aid Armand, if there is any help to be help. But I cannot bare the idea that you may be hurt because of me. I must believe that you are safe from these horrible, or I feel I will have no hope left. It is wrong of me to place this burden on you, but you must be armed against him. You must convince Sir Andrew and his league to stay in England least Chauvelin capture them and do them harm. If you love me you will do this and you will stay in England and not think to risk your life on trying to rescue Armand yourself, I fear Chauvelin would do something dreadful to you if you were to go to France. I will rescue Armand myself if there is the chance for him to be rescued. Do whatever you must to protect yourself, divorce me, denounce me, but do not put your life at risk.
And now I must go. I leave my heart with you, for it is a liability where I go. I love you and will do so until the day I died.
Your own, Marguerite.
Marguerite kissed the page where she had written he name, then folded the sheets and sealed them. Then took out another sheaf of paper and addressed it to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and told him of what she knew of Chauvelin�s scheme and her part in it.
For my brother�s life I aided him, I was a fool. I tried to correct my wrong � mine was the voice by the barn � but it was too late. Chauvelin knows you are the Scarlet Pimpernel, so now if you return to France your life is in deadly peril. I beg you preserve your precious life. You have done so much good, you do not deserve the fate Chauvelin has in store. I pray you do not fault my husband, he did not know what I had done.
This too she seal and addressed them both, Then searched the secretary until she found a silk pouch in which she placed them. Then quickly, quietly she crept to her dressing table. Searching boxes and draws. Looking through jewelry, papers, putting some in the silk pouch, leaving others. She took only that which were hers before she took her wedding vows � leaving the rest despite their immense value. She would need something to barter when she got to France. The most valuable piece � the sapphire ring Percy had given her before he proposed � she nearly left, but it was hers before marriage and it might be the price of Armand�s life. When she finished she took off her dressing gown and slipped beneath the counterpane. Unable to sleep, she laid there until morning.
This thread is continued from Tying Up Loose Ends
This thread is continues in Meetings and Departures
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