It seemed to take forever before the carriage departed and every moment Marguerite worried that Davies or one of the other footmen would realize that it was Suzanne du Tournai hidden beneath Marguerite big floppy hat. That one of them would realize that the Madamoiselle du Tournai that entered the carriage was stooped over slightly to conceal her grander height. But after several long agonizing minutes, the coach jerked forward and rattled down the drive. Marguerite kept herself pressed back against the seat and the hood of Suzanne's cloak low, her hand convulsively clutching the purse with her valuables in it. It was at least twenty minutes after they passed through the looming gate of Blakeney Manor that Marguerite relaxed a bit. The plan was going well. Once the coach reached London, she would reveal to the coachman that she was not his true passenger and she would send him back to collect Suzanne while she acquired a passport and booked passage on the next coach to Dover. If all went well she would be in Dover the next day and in two or three more France.

The George was tucked away in a cobbled courtyard just off Borough High Street, a fairly cheery structure with a wealth of pretty lattice windows and oak beams � that is when rain isn�t pouring down and staining the city in shades of gray. The ground floor of The George was divided into several connecting bars. A few people (passengers and non-passengers) took tea in the coffee room which the proprietor boosted was a favorite haunt of William Shakespeare, while the majority of passengers sat in the waiting room waiting for the coach to be ready.

Marguerite stood beside the white trimmed western window that looked out onto the galleried courtyard where dark shape hunched with their collars pulled up to their over to fend off the rain while still trying to load the coach. The rain, something Marguerite would not miss, had begun before she had even reached London and grew progressively heavier. It proved at asset when the coach had pull the drive of the home of the Foreign Secretary, who had graciously taken in du Tournai until the family could be relocated to a more permanent address, for not only provide a measure of concealment.

By some tremendous stroke of luck, it was Suzanne's own maid, the very girl Marguerite needed to see, that had hurried down the steps to meet her mistress with an umbrella, the poor child had only recently recover from fever. It was difficult enough for Marguerite to stop the girl from raising an alarm when she found a strange woman wearing her lady's cloak, had it been anyone else her venture would have been doomed from the start, but after producing the letter Suzanne had written, the girl was more compliant.

"Suzanne remarked that you were a fairly sensible and resourceful girl," Marguerite explained, the maid blushed at the complement. "I need to return to Paris, but I have no papers that will let me travel. It is a matter of life and death."

"You ain�t all by yaself?" the girl asked, cocking her head in amazement. These French women were too bold for their own good. First her young lady a-visiting without a maid and now this one who wished to go all the way to Par-ee without any accompaniment � absurd! "You'll run yaself into trouble tha' way. Th' road ain't safe fa ladies."

"But, I have no other choice," Marguerite said impatiently. "I must go." Brave words - even if Marguerite didn't feel as confident as she sounded. She knew the world was dangerous for a woman, could imagine the possibilities... but it was for Armand. Poor dear Armand suffering for her conscience. He would do no less for her if their roles were reversed.

"Ya askin' for trouble," the girl shook her head, pacing a bit. "You need a companion � oh!" Her mouth dropped open as though she struck on some piece of inspiration. "Ma'be Mizz Mary could help you, she�s a writer of sorts, an� my sister is a-going with her as her lady�s maid... Ma�be she�d help you... if'n she has left a'ready!"

As luck would have it, Miss Mary had not left. Elizabeth, the maid's given named, was exceedingly helpful in made the arrangements for Marguerite introduction to Miss Mary. Lady Blakeney was hurried, Miss Mary�s residence on Store Street in Bedford Square, shown to a lavished parlor to await an interview. It was then that Marguerite considered that Miss Mary might turn her out when she discovered Marguerite was running away from her husband, after all she had given up all rights when she said her vows. What sensible woman would want to get involved in that mess?

Perhaps fifteen minutes later, Miss Mary appeared, a slender, fine-featured lady, with a few strands of gray that marred the masses honey colored hair. Within a few minutes Marguerite discovered the lady to be a highly-intelligent and sensible creature and took an instant liking to her. Over tea and biscuits, Miss Mary listened thoughtfully to the tale Marguerite had concocted while she waited. How an unscrupulous cavalier had spirited her away from her home with the promise of helping her family to escape France, only to take her dowry and abandon her family to their fate. "They are waiting for him to return and do not know that he is a scoundrel! I must go to them and help them if I can!" Miss Mary sat back in her seat and looked Marguerite over appraisingly � something in her manner made Marguerite believe the woman doubted her story � why would she? Thinking over it it did sound too contrived. "If there is a way you can help me get to me to Paris, I beg you to please, please help me... please, my family is all I have in this world."

Perhaps, Miss Mary could sense something of Marguerite's sincerity and urgency, for after a minute of intense scrutiny, her nodded her elegant head. "I will be leaving in the morning," Mary said, heavily. You may join me... I supposed you will not want to be recognized, so we will try to pass you off as my son. As a boy, there is less of a chance that you will be recognized or molested..." When we reach Paris you must fend for yourself." Marguerite nodded in agreement eagerly, overjoyed by her good fortune. "You may stay the night if you wish, as I assume you have no where else, and we've set off at first light..." Miss Mary rose and glided to the door ending the interview, she paused at the door and threw over her shoulder "...and from this moment on I want nothing but the truth from you." Marguerite stared after her in wonder with no idea what had convinced the woman, but she was grateful the woman was convinced.

Standing by the window of The George off Borough High Street in London, watching the coach being loaded, it seemed hard to believe that just the previous morning she had been laying in her own bed in Richmond. So much had changed. She shifted uncomfortably in her boy �s clothes with her values carefully, if not uncomfortably hidden on her person, reminding herself over and over why she was there, .saying good-bye to her new life... her old life now. Worrying her buttons on her coat sleeves as she thought about the sacrifices her decisions of late had entailed. Her poor, misguided husband, whose face she would never see again. She sent a prayer to heaven that he would not do himself injury when he discovered she was gone. Despite, his cruelty, she was certain he did love her, perhaps more than anyone else had. If only... Marguerite shook her head trying to dismiss the thought, her life was filled with many �if only�s.

"The coach is ready," Miss Mary startled Marguerite, stepping out of the coffee room and laying a hand on her shoulder. "We'll be in Dover by nightfall, after that we should be able to set out with the morning tide unless there is a storm..."

"Then let as pray for fair weather," Marguerite said, moving to the door. Mary caught a hold of Marguerite�s arm.

"You know that after this there is no turning back." Perhaps the lady hoped Marguerite would change her mind.

"There was no turning back before I came to your door," Marguerite replied, in all honest. Miss Mary scowled, then shrugged before stepping out into the rain followed by her entourage.

"You know, many think I�m quite mad to go to France at this time," Mary confided in Marguerite as Amelia helped her out of her traveling dress and into a nightgown. Despite Marguerite hope of going on they had to stay the night in Dover. "But I think the origins of the revolution might make for worthy material. I wonder if their fight for the equal rights of men takes into consideration the rights of women. Somehow I have my doubts... besides, I�ve grown weary of London and could use the change." Marguerite guessed that there was more to the story than Mary was willing to tell � perhaps she too was trying to run away from or too something, maybe that is why she took pity on Marguerite. "I think, all things considered, I deserve to know a name."

"Marguerite..." Marguerite said hesitantly.

"Marguerite...?"

"Perhaps it would be better for you if you didn�t know the rest." Marguerite studied the floor boards at the foot of the bed. She heard Mary let out a noisy breath.

"... and this �family� of yours, are they real?"

"My brother has been arrested, he is suspected of aiding an English spy... I hope that there is something I can do to help," Marguerite heart sank as she said it, said aloud it sounded all the more helpless.

"Have you thought that you may be late already?"

"All the time," Marguerite curled up on the edge of the bed, her imagination overactive.

"Then I hope for your sake, that you can help him," Mary said sympathetically and blew out the candle beside the bed.

She had read in the English papers about the atrocities occurring on a daily basis in Paris, had seen atrocities those last few days before she wed her English milord and he swept her off to his country, but during that long ride to Paris, Marguerite remembered the beauty of her country. The sun shining over the land, the peacefully swaying tree rustled by a light breeze � the smell, the feel of the land and the air � this was home. This was the uncorrupted beauty of France. For a moment she was harkened back to the days of her youth, before life showed her that all was not beautiful in the world. She felt at home for the first time in so long.

While the ride did something to sooth Marguerite�s aching heart, Paris had quite the opposite effect. The pain and misery of her people was never so visible as it was in its capital. The hunger, the anger - it was so much worse than when she had left � children still starved and family suffered from all manner of wants, even as all voices shouted for the equality of all. Their only solace, to take out their frustrations cheering the downfall of those who were once considered their betters.

"Did you envision this to be the result of your revolution?" Miss Mary asked as they passed within sight of a tumbrel bound for the Place du Carousel. Marguerite tore her eyes from the window to meet her benefactress, the luxury of the carriage seemed surreal when compared to what she had seen outside.

"No. What mind could envision such madness and help it take form?" Marguerite replied. "My people are in pain, they have known misery for too long. This revolution holds the promise of better days, but they have not seen much improvement in their lives. Their families still starve, still fall ill from deprivation � they seen no other release from their miseries than the greater suffering of others. Their pain seems more bearable by lashing out at others � at the aristocrats. They are a good people, madame... if though somewhat misguided."

"You know that once you leave my company I cannot help you?" the lady ask, even as the carriage began to slow as it neared its destination. For a moment, Marguerite thought she detected a note of concern and fear in the woman�s voice.

"I do. And I am most grateful and indebted to you for the kindness you�ve showed me." The carriage stopped, and the coachman opened the door to help the lady descend, but Miss Mary stayed rooted to the spot.

"How will you make your way? Have you any money?"

"A little and I have some jewelry to barter," Marguerite told her. Mary nodded her head slightly and took the hand that the coach man offered, her maid followed and Marguerite climbed out behind them. Marguerite�s last sight of Miss Mary, was as she scampered up the steps of the hotel, head leaning into her maid, then the maid broke away and chased after Marguerite, with a small bundle.

"Miss Mary wants you to have this."

"I can not..." Marguerite protested.

"You can and you must," the maid said. "Miss Mary will have my hide if�n I come back with it. She says she wishes you luck and if ever you return to England that you must tell her the short... the whole story." Marguerite took the bundle gratefully and squeezed the woman�s hand, then dashed away down the street. She knew Paris and thanks to Chauvelin knew where Armand was.

Rue de Richelieu. Number 27.

It was just east of the theater district, where Marguerite Saint-Just had gain much acclaim on stage, with its darkened windows and its walls that seemed less white than Marguerite had remembered them. She and Armand had lived there since d'Alembert had been her lover, when she had been Marguerite, a dancer in the Comedie de Francais. It more than anywhere else is the vision that comes to mind when she thinks of "home". Perhaps it was that need for the familiar, or a deepest heart�s desire that she might find nothing changed � that Chauvelin was wrong and Armand was, even now turning in for the night in his own bed, that guided her feet home.

She had arrived an hour before dark and wandered along and loitered around the street until darkness fell and people turned in for the night � she slipped inside cautiously. She found near the door candles and a flint, picked this up, but did not light a candle � she knew the way well enough. In the silence she could hear her own breath, her own heartbeat as it pounded heavily in her chest. Her heart skipped a beat as the second step creaked under her weight, it always did when she stepped on it, but the sound was so much more ominous and forbidding in the empty apartment. At the head of the stairs, something crackled under foot and Marguerite stopped to light a candle. She shielded the flame with her little hand as she kneeled down to see what was underfoot. Pieces of porcelain near it broken bits of wood that looked like the remains of a chair. She went further into the apartment to find more broken furniture, books ripped and scattered, the paintings on the walls broken or slashed, amongst them the portraits of her parents. Armand never would have left those. The rooms were worst, with torn clothes scattered about. Marguerite moved around the apartment, looking for clues, salvaging what she could that might help her in her quest, and finally settling in a corner of Armand�s room for the night.

Marguerite awoke just before dawn, stiff and sore from sleeping on the floor, her feet still ached from all the walking she had done the day before. Roused into consciousness by bird song, there was a moment she had forgotten where she was and under what circumstances until her body protested as she tried to move and open her eyes to see Armand's ruined room. It was fortunate she had slept light - dreamless - for her dreams of late were growing worse - Miss Mary had woke her one night claiming she was screaming as though somene were being murdered then became silent remembering. She could ill afford to draw attention, especially now.

She gather up a few belongings from around the apartment and shoved them into a bag, changed into an old dress and shawl that looked like it may have once be Madeleine's (it was a ridiculously big on Marguerite), she then took a large piece of broken glass and cut the portraits of her parents free from their canvases - she knew Armand would try to repair them when she got him free - rolled them together and stuck them in the bag. She emerged out onto the street just as the first rays of sun touched them and headed west.

Between the Comedie and the Rue de Richlieu was a quiant cafe known affectionately as le Coin Confortable, the actors or the Comedie spent much time there being catered to by Msr. Leon, the owner. Young Mlle Leon had her heart stuck on Armand, despite his lack of interest. Le Coin Confortable was not quaint as Marguerite recalled it as she return there, there were fewer customers and Msr. Leon had to use all of his profits to support his family, instead of keeping up with maintanance. Mlle Leon was married with two children and third just beginning to sprout in her belly - but she still carried that torch for her first crush.

"I had heard your flat had been tossed by the National Guard, but that no arrests had been made,"she whispered to Marguerite as she served her a slice of bread. "I heard he had gone before they arrived. I also heard that it was some other students that denounced him." There is where the letter came from, Marguerite thought to herself. "I don't know what to tell you. What I've heard sounds strange... I heard there was someone staying with him before he disappeared, never came out of the house." Was that someone Andrew Ffoulkes or one of the followers of the Scarlet Pimpernel? She won't know until she asked Armand. "Do you think he is in prison?" the girl asked fearfully.

"I don't know for sure, citoyen Chauvelin claims he is," Marguerite told her. "But if he wasn't there when the guard came, then perhaps he is free... it does seem curious." Marguerite tapped the table lightly with a finger as she thought.

"If for some reason you see Armand, if say he is free, tell him to go to England at once. I know that is a hard thing for me to ask, but here... these are for you whether you see him or not..." she fumbled in her pocket for a pair of gold earrings and pressed them into the girl's hand.

"I couldn't take these! No, I will tell Armand without them!"

"Take them!" Marguerite insisted. "Just in case... if you don't want them give them to Armand and tell him to use them to pay for his way to England." The girl tearfully accepted and Marguerite left just a little more hopeful. Perhaps, Armand was yet free.

Marguerite spent the day calling on old colleagues and pressing them for answers, for help if need be, but getting little for her pains. Most didn't know anything and those that did were decidely tight-lipped, most could not help and those that could would not, despite Marguerite's reminders that she helped them when it was dangerous to do so - but that was for the betterment of the country not as a personal favor. However, she find answers in the most unlikely of places. When all else failed she called on the Incorruptable himself, who would not meet her face-to-face, his secretary had her write out her requests and brought back and note in response:

While Chauvelin was a notorious liar, Robespierre had no need to. Armand is in La Force and in serious trouble and so any appeals would have to be made of Chauvelin.

She knew that she would eventually have to face him, but had hope to postpone the encounter. Yet, so typical of Chauvelin, here he was setting the conditions, asserting himself where he was not wanted. He�s appear here startled her, how long had he been trailing her? Since she when to the Rue de Richelieu? since arriving in Paris? Leaving Richmond? It was difficult to credit chance to this meeting.

"I have come to petition for Armand�s release," she told him plainly, trying to cover for her earlier unease. If she were not careful, he would use her words and actions against her. "In England you said you could give me no guarantee of Armand�s safety, so I have come myself... I am told that you are the person I must speak to if I am to see learn anything about his condition or location or even the charges brought against him." Her words sounded like the accusation they were, defying him to tell her that he had no part in Armand�s predicament. She had thought about the facts she knew since the crossing from Dover and came to the conclusion that the fact Chauvelin held could not alone hold Armand in prison, there had to be higher forces at work in the matter and if Chauvelin�s was not the hand manipulating the situation, he was working with whomever it was.

"I must thank you for saving me the trouble of seeking you out," she locked eyes with his, "I know that your current projects have been keeping you busy."

Marguerite held her ground and her tongue, as Chauvelin circled her like a bird of prey, tossing insults like a mean-spirited child. He was trying to wheedle information out of her, trying to raise her temper so that she might blurt out something she might not readily reveal. She could not rise to his bait, she told herself over and over. "Sir Percy is in England. I have asked him to stand there. The streets of Paris are not safe for the English these days, especially if he's titled," Marguerite said plainly. "Armand is my brother and my responsibility."

Mention of Armand reminded Marguerite that it was for his sake that she had come here, that she was even speaking with this devil in the form of a man. She could not risk angering Chauvelin, when he was the only tie she had with her brother. "You were once his friend and mentor, Chauvelin," Marguerite voice softened slightly as she tried to appeal to anything that might be good or decent in the man. If need be she would appeal to his overwhelming desire for her, if it meant helping Armand - but the situation was not quite so desperate as that yet. "You know that Armand can be brash and impetuous, but he loves France. He would never do anything that would hurt this country or it's people. You know this. How often was he at your side, carrying on the call you started?" Chauvelin shifted his weigh for one foot to the other and for a moment he was staring right through her, as if the memories were even now playing out before him.

"Please, let me see him. Let me hear from his lips the truth of these accusations. Let me give him some comfort that someone is fighting for his life."

As much as she loathed to do so, Marguerite allowed Chauvelin to scoop up her hand and place it on his arm, to help her into the coach where his hands lingered on her longer than necessary as he helped her in, his intense stare the whole of the carriage... all these things set off signals in her head to run, to put as much distance between him and herself. But then this was why she was here.

The real terror came when they reached La Force, as they walking passed dirty, leering soldiers into god-forsaken place. She clenched her fists to kept her hands from shaking as she stepped across the threshold � what if they wouldn�t let her out? She nearly jumped when the door bang closed behind them. From this point on Chauvelin had all the power.

Chauvelin had tastefully chosen a path that avoided most of the prison�s human content � most, but not all. There were still rooms of families huddled together, eyes watching the comings and goings of the guards and wondering, is this when it ends? Old eyes, young eyes, eyes with some hope left and others with none. What filled Armand�s eyes right now? If he gave up hope what could she do to help him? Chauvelin lead her on past the large rooms to smaller more intimate cells, these cells where closed off from sunlight and the air was stale and pungent. Marguerite and Chauvelin had to hold handkerchiefs to their noses. Marguerite prayed that Armand wasn�t in one of these rooms. The air alone was enough to make a man ill. All the corridors and doors looked alike here. Even by some chance she could free Armand, what hope was there of finding their way out.

She spotted a door with four armed guards, three of whom where huddled together as those playing a game, which ended as the forth cleared his throat and the others snapped to attention. She glanced at Chauvelin, who shot them a nasty look and in turn shot a dark look at the young man who had fallen into step with them at some point and brought up the rear. The young man jogged past her and unlocked the door. Opening it for them. Chauvelin halted just outside the door indicating she should enter.

She hesitantly stepped into the room, letting her eyes grow accustomed to the dark. After a few seconds she could see and would later wish she had not. At first she thought the room empty, save for a hemp of straw and cloth, until she saw the limp hand which grazed the cold floor. "Armand!"

She ran to him and scooped up the lifeless hand. Shaking him with the hopes that there was still life in him.

Marguerite knelt beside her brother, cradling Armand�s head in her arms. She placed one hand on his chest and felt the soft rise and fall of his chest, felt his heart beat softly in his chest � alive! Thank god! But how long could he stand these conditions? He had to be released, at once, if he was to have any hope of surviving.

An old man filled the door, blocking out the light for a moment before slowly moving to Armand�s side and checking the boy over. "How is he?" Marguerite whispered to the doctor, but received no reply except the grim look on the physician�s face. She turned to the door where Chauvelin and Leroux were conferring. "What do you intend to do to him?"

"But Armand could..." Marguerite bit back the end of that statement, as though giving voice to that fear gave it life. "This place is killing him. You know who the Scarlet Pimpernel is, there is no need to keep Armand. I can no longer provide you with information... my part in this betrayal is too well known now and what care would the Pimpernel have for Armand - none!" The look on Chauvelin's face told her that he was unconvinced. "Armand means nothing to the Pimpernel, he is not an aristocrat! If you must punish someone, punish me instead, I would happily lay my head down in your guillotine, if it meant Armand was spared."

It was a pity that Suzanne was unable to send her note to Andrew before he left, or he he come despite her warning. How much easier it would have been if Andrew had stayed in England. Yet, it was growing increasingly clear - the only way Armand would be free was if Andrew Ffoulkes rescued him or died in his stead. And if Andrew died, could she be so sure of Armand's life? Would Andrew help her brother after she betrayed him? And how could she communicate the desperate situation to him? Paris was a great city, with an infinite number of places to hide - and clearly was was good at that. If by some miracle she did find him, would he listen and help, or think it another trap?

Marguerite got to her feet and let the good doctor tend to Armand, "And am I to join my brother? Or do you have another cell for me? I have done no crime." Chauvelin's face was expressionless. "Do remember marriage makes me English, and while I'm sure you could find charges to keep me, there are many who would only hear that an English lady is lauguishing in a French jail and that fan the flames of English outrage. You know how the English people are calling for war, there are those who would overlook that fact that the lady in question was French herself." Marguerite raised her voice on key words as she spoke to so that all those present could hear. All it would take was one or two of these men to talk outside the prison and the news would travel over the city, or so she hoped Chauvelin would believe. "To think... if the English here in France believed the French government was detaining English aristocrats, a good number would take their revenue elsewhere."

Marguerite took great pains to control herself, she had got all that she would get from Chauvelin, anything else was a game on his part. He enjoyed riling her up and she would not give him the opportunity. "I will be here every day at this hour, good enough?"

Marguerite wordlessly followed a tall lanky guard back along the path Chauvelin had taken her. Though it broke her heart to leave Armand, even there was little she could do here now. Chauvelin was not to be reasoned with, and from all that she had observed, there wasn't the slightest chance she could effect a prison break on her own, even if he weren't under such close guard. And there would be no help from her former Republican colleagues, none wanted to link themself to a sinking ship for fear of being pulled down.

Was it possible that the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel would help? All evidence indicated that Chauvelin thought Armand was linked to that band... But, then that is exactly what Chauvelin would want - for her to lead poor Andrew Ffoulkes into his trap. She couldn't ask. But Chauvelin seemed confident that The Pimpernel would come... if so maybe they already knew Armand's plight... maybe they were coming to rescue him. All what ifs. When she came out of the prison, she found the little man that had brought the doctor speaking with a man in a faded brown coat, who leaned against the waiting coach and watched her with much interest. Marguerite pulled her shawl up so that it covered her hair and cap and quickly walked north. The first corner she came to she turned left, then peeked down the street to see if she was followed. The street had too many passersby to see clearly down it, but at least the man with the brown coat wasn't in sight. Taking a long winding path through the city and watching her back, Marguerite make her way back to the Rue Richlieu.

Marguerite took the crookedest path imaginable to le Coin Confortable, where she hoped to speak with Mlle Ad�lalde Leon (no Mdm Belesur - she was married now) and to pass the time till it was dark enough to slip back into her former home on the Rue de Richelieu. She had at least an hour and a half till the sun went down. Mdm Belesur seated her in one of the most isolated booths in the place, one typically reserved for customers willing to pay more, but allowed Marguerite to observe those entering with readily being seen. Offering her a bowl of stew and some bread without being asked, Ad�lalde sat with Marguerite for a moment to hear what Marguerite had learned of Armand.

"Armand has been arrested for conspiracy. Chauvelin is keeping him in La Force, in an isolated cell in the heart of the prison," Marguerite told her as she stirred the contents of her bowl and heard a startled intake of breath. "I believe Chauvelin think him to be in league with the Scarlet Pimpernel, that Englishman that has been rescuing aristos from the guillotine. If Chauvelin can prove those charges, there is no hope for him. As it is, there are guards posted outside his door at all times... I suppose they anticipate a rescue..."

"Then this Scarlet Pimpernel is to rescue Armand?" Ad�lalde interrupted.

"I don't know. Back in England, Chauvelin threatened to have Armand put on trial, if I didn't help him seek the man out. Unfortunately, I help him, but then I couldn't bear to have that poor man's blood on my hands so I warned him and Chauvelin discovered my treachery," Marguerite confessed. "Before coming here, I sent a note to the Pimpernel telling him to avoid France, because he would be in danger. If he received it, then he knows the danger of seeking Armand out. It is certain death. He is a risk-taker, but I doubt he would risk that much."

"But what will happen to him?"

"Chauvelin assures me than if the Englishman is not caught, Armand will take his place on the tumbrel," Marguerite continued to look down at her stew, her appetite non-existent, but it was more comfort than looking into Ad�lalde�s eyes.

"Dear God! But do you know who this Scarlet Pimpernel is? Maybe..."

"Maybe I can betray him again? No. I think I know his identity, but would not compromise him again. He is a shining example of what is best and brightest in the human race. Men like him need to live," she explained. "I�ll have to find some other way to rescue Armand... and I fear that anyone that helps me is also at risk. Which is why it may be best that I do not return here."

"Pshaw! Don�t you think that! You and Armand are like family. Papa and I would worry to death if we didn�t know you were alright," Ad�lalde scolded. "You must let us help you if we can."

Marguerite took the girl�s hands in hers. "Thank you, chere. Your words mean the world to me. But go back to your customers before anyone gets upset." Marguerite watched Ad�lalde shuffle away, then surveyed the restaurante. Thus far, it seemed that she wasn�t being followed.

27 Rue de Richelieu.

It was growing riskier and riskier to stay here, but there was no other place she could think to go. Despite the damage, there was still some sense of home and she knew the building and area well enough to that knowledge to use if needs be. Besides, she could little afford to stay elsewhere.

First thing when she arrived, she used the last rays of light to search the apartment for clues of Armand�s last days. Sitting in Armand�s bedroom, which had no windows, so there was little chance of passers on the street seeing the light from her candle, Marguerite sifted through her discoveries. In her room, she had discovered bandages (was Armand�s guest injured?) and men�s clothing which was for a man clearly bigger than Armand, including a very elegant silk suit � now ripped and torn by whoever had gone through the apartment. Armand�s guest clearly liked to change his appearance. In a secret cubby in the kitchen, she found incriminating papers � passports (for men and women), enigmatical timestables, the name and location of a letter writer, and the worse of all a note with containing an address in Pont Neuf signed with a queer flower. The scarlet pimpernel. Chauvelin was right.

�Dear God, Armand! I pray your friends can do you better service than I,� Marguerite whispered, clasping her hands to her heart. Chauvelin told her he knew the Pimpernel to be in Paris now. �Do they know where you are?� It would be foolish for her to seek them out and risk leading their enemies to the door, but she must help them somehow. The letter carrier � a friend? The address � a hideout? Would these resources still be in use? If a note could be got to them...

Using a bit of pencil, she wrote on the back of one of the timestables:

She wrote out the path Chauvelin took her along, and described all that she saw and signing it, �One who loves him dearly.� She folded the page and tucked it in her bosom, she memorized the address and the name and location of the letter writer, then burned the pages in the grate. Perhaps, Ad�lalde would consent to deliver her message or perhaps she could find someone at the Comedie still loyal to her.

�I�m not going to England,� Armand said firmly. �There is too much going on here. The world is changing, Margot! France is changing! It is what both of us have dreamed for. Freedom, independence, equal rights for all people! I cannot leave now.�

�Armand, it is not what we dream of,� Marguerite argued. �It is true that the classes are dissolving, but the poor still starve, the innocent are still oppressed... I realize now that the flaw in the system was not class, but power. Those with power are corrupted by it whether they be aristocrat or bourgeois � we replace one set of tyrants for another.� She rose for the settle and crossed the room to the window where Armand stood and took his hand in hers. �This city is no longer safe... for anyone... London is not Paris, but it is safe. It is a chance for both of us to start life anew.� Armand�s eyes hardened and he pulled his hand out of hers.

�Go ahead and marry your English milord,� Armand said, turning his back and walking away from her. �But if you do, be honest with yourself why you are marrying him. I will not go with you though. Paris is my home. France is my country. I will not abandon her, because the changes don�t go so smoothly.� A sharp pain stabbed through Marguerite�s heart at Armand�s words. He questioned her honor and motives � her own brother.

�You judge me harshly.�

�Well, do you love him?�

Raucous laughter from the street belong drew her thoughts back to the present. She cast off the blanket, rose from the torn mattress that had been Armand�s bed, crept across the room and through the door that stood ajar to the sitting room. Soundlessly, she moved to the edge of the window and peeked out onto the street below where a pair of noisy drunks cut a path down the Rue Richelieu. A few windows lit up at their racket, but none challenged them.

Marguerite watched until they disappeared, lingering at the window a moment longer to study the shadows on the street. Her overactive imagination convinced her there were things stirring in the shadows on the street opposite her window, but she forced herself to dismiss them. It did no good to think of such things, she was only frightening herself and there was enough to do that for her. Quietly, she retreated back to Armand�s room and lay back down on the mattress, pulled the blanket over herself, and tried to put her mind at peace.

If only Armand had come to England, neither of them would be in the positions they were in. Marguerite would be at Blakeney Manor, wondering and worrying over where her husband was and who was with him and Armand would be immersed in his studies, improving himself so that he might enter into a promising career. They would read about the horrors in France and lament over the cruelties there, but they would be safe. Life would have been more bearable, especially now that Suzanne was there. But the reality was here and now.

Staring out through the open door into the parlour, she knew that she should have said, �yes�. Maybe things would have been different if she had. She should have said yes.

Marguerite rose before the first light of day, made the best toiletries she could without the benefit of water, and waited until for the first hints of pink on the horizon before sneaking out of her apartment. There were several hours before anyone would be at the Comedie to answer her questions and several more before the performers began to arrive. With any luck, Simone was still there. Odds were that she�d found a wealthy lover and was lolling in a posh apartment at his expense. Perhaps someone there would have the address...

As it were, there was still a good couple of hours before M. Leon�s would open and she could get a warm meal and pass on her message to Ad�la�de. She hurried purposeful the the direction opposite where she intended to go, without have a specific destination in mind. If she was being followed, let Chauvelin�s men acquire all sorts of false leads on her activity. Two streets down and one over she came upon an ostlery and spoke with the young man working there about the number and manner of coaches the place maintained. After twenty minutes of this discourse, she changed direction and headed up another street, turned a corner and from there made a beeline of M. Leon�s. Even if they were closed, Ad�la�de and her father would be arriving to set up by the time she got there. Hopefully, Chauvelin�s agents, if there were any, had stopped to question the boy. She would be able to determine whether her fears were in her mind or a reality when she saw Chauvelin in the evening.

All was as she hoped when she arrived at le Coin Confortable, as she presented herself at the kitchen door and was allowed immediate entrance. M. Leon gave her a bowl of soup and chunk of bread and Marguerite explained to Ad�la�de what needed to be done and the danger involved. �I will send Claude with the message and your instructions this morning before he goes off to work,� Ad�la�de assured her. �He�s a clever and trustworthy boy.�

Marguerite walked the remaining distance from le Coin Confortable to the Comedie. It was still early she knew, so she opted to seat herself near the performer�s entrance and watch the comings and going through the wisps of hair that fell over her face and the frayed lace of the cap she wore. With any luck they would take her for a beggar (she certainly looked the part) and she could remain unknown until she chose to reveal herself. She had quite a wait ahead of her. The day was exceedingly hot and the locals less than amiable. She was cursed and spat at and once even had dirt kicked in her face, which stung her eyes and nearly made her miss the first friendly face to pass.

The young woman who caught her eye was as tall and thin as a bean pole - with her too loose clothes and her dark, stringy hair was tied back at the base of her neck, she looker all the thinner. She seemed to have grown since Marguerite last saw her, but the young woman was clearly Filipa, one of the dressers at the Comedie Francais. She stared at the ground before her as she walked, lost in thought, she didn�t even look at the beggar woman as she passed within a couple of feet of Marguerite. �Filipa!�

The girl froze in her tracks, then wheeled around on her heels to face the stranger. �What do you want? How do you know me?� Marguerite struggled to her feet � her leg had gone numb after sitting so long � to face Filipa.

�It has been less than a year since we worked together, Filippa. Surely you haven�t forgotten me so quickly,� Marguerite admonished.

Filippa studied Marguerite�s face closely, then her eyes widened in recognition, �Marguerite!�

�Shhhh!� Marguerite raised a finger to her lips and looked to saw if anyone had taken notice.

�Marguerite, what are you doing here?� Filippa whispered. �I thought you�d gone to England with that baronet of yours. What are you doing here, dressed like a that? Where�s your husband?� She would have continued, but Marguerite hushed her.

�My brother has been accused of treason and arrested, I�ve come to see if I can help him.� Marguerite led Filippa around the Comedie as she spoke. �I... I know that Simone had some connections to individuals who might have the power to help him��

�Oh, Margot! You can�t ask Simone, I dare say she loathes you,� Filippa said. �She has been telling everyone since last Christmas that you betrayed the Marquis de Saint-Cyr. She has been spreading the most horrible rumours! In fact, she has taken up residence outside the city for fear of being denounced herself. I doubt she will help you.�

Marguerite�s spirits fell as she listened to Filippa, one after another of her options was running out.

�I never did believe that rubbish she was spouting off,� Filippa remarked. The girl was bent over the table in the center of the room examining the seams of costumes, as she listened to Marguerite�s account of the infamous night that sealed the fate of Saint-Cyr and cast Marguerite Saint-Just�s name in infamy. The two women were holed up in a laundry room at the Comedie Francais, Marguerite sitting on a settle Filippa had hauled up from one of the prop room while went Filippa busily to work. �I�ve no doubt that Simone was playing the part of a courier, but after Saint-Cyr, anyone of title avoided her like she was poxed.�

�Who could be blamed?� Marguerite replied. �It was a miracle her neck was spared... but anyone near her would be suspected of being the recipient of Saint-Cyr�s correspondence, and possibly share he fate.�

�You aren�t any safer, Marguerite,� Filippa looked up from her work and held Marguerite�s gaze. �Aristos are unpopular amongst the people, as are the English � you married one and became the other, which places you in danger. You should have stayed with your husband, should have stayed in England.� Marguerite looked down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap. That was the part of the story she had omitted telling Filippa, she told her that she had gone off on her own, but said nothing of the circumstances of that departure or of her failing marriage. She had spoke of her anguish over Armand�s predicament, but not of the pain in her heart that she had lost her husband forever. She had try desperately not to think of Percy, but encountered a hundred things a day that served as reminders. Being here in the Comedie she was reminded of how he would come nightly to see her perform when he was in Paris, how he would sit in his box with his chin resting on his palms watching her. She missed how safe she felt when she was with her, especially now when she had no one but herself to rely on as she walked the streets of Paris alone. But, in general, she missed him despite herself, despite better judgment.

�I cannot dismiss Armand so easily as that,� Marguerite said. �Chauvelin gave me little choice. I cannot find this Scarlet Pimpernel and the English government has no interest in a revolutionary from France. I thought� I hoped... that I could do something... that all those years Armand and I helped the republic might, gain him some assistance...� But evidently old favors are easily forgotten, when one has nothing to offer. �Chauvelin says Armand is free when the pimpernel is in his custody. So I must wait and pray for some divine intervention.�

�Or the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel,� Filippa added.

�No. Armand couldn�t bear the thought that such a man would die in his stead.�

�He might not feel that way if he knew that there have been fellows going away to rile the people up and get them to storm the prisons and kill the enemies of the state,� Filippa remarked.

Marguerite blanched, �When?�