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Different. Surely, there could be no question that this time, this time it would be different. This time he would succeed, the small, austere Frenchman told himself, his heart inflamed with lust for revenge, and the thought of his prey locked in his jaws driving his brain to frenzy, calculating every variable, scrutinizing every detail. Chauvelin stood alone, no one cared to be near him as he stared into the darkness like a maddened beast of war, his eyes blazing with hatred. Silently, he ground his teeth, he walked to the door and paused there.
I have forgotten something. Of course I have.
He feverishly searched the room, as if he could discern the location of the one chink in his plan to capture the Englishman who had ruined his career and imperiled his life, bringing him under the suspicion of the Committee of National Security- the ruthless organization he had personally supplied with a regular diet of fresh traitors to be slaughtered on the high altar of the revolution in the former Place de Louis VX in Paris. By all the laws of France, he was a dead man. They kept him alive, like a crazed hound, to catch the Scarlet Pimpernel. In him they had the only dog mad enough to eat the English dog.
Exhausted, Armand Chauvelin, the former Marquis, former member of the committee of Public Safety, sat at his desk and breathed a heavy sigh. He rubbed a heavy hand down his face. He felt so old. He rested his head against his upturned finger. The chink- where is it! What is it! Dull and distant was the voice telling him he had at last constructed the perfect trap. No, he had come to that point many times. And each time the fop would elude him, humiliate him, toy with him.
Suddenly there was noise in the guard house opposite Chauvelin’s room. He pounced on the door and was in the hallway before the guard could make it to the doorway. They collided in the corridor. The younger man fumbled in the darkness. Chauvelin lashed out, knocking him against the wall painfully. ‘Fool! What is the meaning of this?’ he snarled.
‘Le mouron—‘ the lanky youth stammered. Chauvelin threw back his head.
‘Where? Show me, you cur!’ The young revolutionary ran to the door of the guard house and pointed into the yard as he disappeared into the dark night beyond.
‘Here, here, citoyen!’ Chauvelin barrelled out into the darkness of the yard. There was an eerie haze granted by the stars that night. Chauvelin could see the young revolutionary gesturing hurriedly, excitedly and wildly down the road.
‘I saw him there, it was me- remember! You will remember me to- You will tell them that I found him? That it was I?’
‘Hold your tongue, for God’s sake!’ The youth stared at him in shock. Chauvelin laughed bitterly. ‘We do not have him yet. We must move fast, before he escapes us! We will have no second chances!’ The youth darted to a horse Chauvelin had indicated, next to his own, and leaped onto its back. Chauvelin was already waiting. ‘How far?’
‘Perhaps half a league.’
‘So far?’ Chauvelin spurred his horse into a flat gallop, impatience made him vicious. He could hear the sound of the second horse some distance from his own. He reigned in a little, to allow the youth to catch up with him. ‘Where should we find him?’
‘His men were at a farm house. I saw the large Englishman- there could be no question. He was so stupid and clean.’
Chauvelin laughed again. ‘But you say he is with his men?’
‘Yes, but when I left him, they had gone- to Chagey for the children. He, however, said he must stay to meet with another who would send word to the coast as a courier- it is so!’
‘Ah, it is so!’ said Chauvelin. Yes, this sounded precisely like how his opponent would lay his plan. Before long, the two men were nearing the place where the farm house could be seen in the distance. The youth suddenly fired with zeal to be the first at the scene spurred his horse faster and cried.
‘Quiet!’ muttered Chauvelin. At that moment, the youth’s horse gave a sudden scream, leaped high into the air and threw its rider. Chauvelin had time only to look back to see the animal racing off into the trees when he was struck. He was down, the air violently struck from his body, he was dazed. When he next knew himself, it was much colder than it had been. The night was now past its median. It was some time after midnight. Chauvelin painfully rose from the gravel of the road and, finding himself utterly alone, he looked scornfully at the farm house in the distance. There would be no use in going there now.
Chauvelin turned back and walked in the prints of his own horse, seething with frustration. Before long, Chauvelin came upon a strange sight. Something was hanging from a tree. He looked up and, straining his eyes, he could see that it was a guard’s helmet. He took it down and inspected it. This was the very one worn by his companion. At his feet, he saw the scabbard from the man’s sabre. Chauvelin moved closer into the trees and found the coat, the trousers, the boots of the youth scattered on the ground. Chauvelin rose from examining the boots, and swore softly, superstitiously to himself.
Then he heard it. His eyes grew livid, if God had not been officially declared non-existent by the committee, he might have crossed himself right there, for in that remote glade he heard the unmistakable sound of loud, hearty, silly laughter. He turned slowly towards the sound. It came from above him.
There, in the cradle of a large branch hanging over his head, Chauvelin saw all six feet of the gorgeous Sir Percival Blakeney stretched luxuriously as though he were resting on a sofa in his Richmond home, exhausted after a rout. His coat was the most beautiful claret velvet, the white lace at his wrists and throat an immaculate white as he frisked one nebulous frill with a finely moulded hand. He propped himself up on an elbow and whipped out his spyglass to examine the citizen.
‘Lud love me!’ He drawled. ‘My good friend Shovelynn! This is demmed clever, you coming out here and finding me- and I took such care to find me a good tall tree to support my weight. I say, I really must be more careful or you just might begin to get high minded and think you will catch me one of these days,’ the fop let out a reverberating, bellowing howl of a laugh. ‘Such a diversion, is it not? The idea- it’s so absurd.’
‘Sir Percy, I know very well it was you.’
‘Who was me? Are you trying to confuse me?’ Percy stared at his adversary inanely. Chauvelin ground his teeth. ‘Ah, no. Well, I confess, I did think it would be fun to see what all the rage is about this blue, red, and white en-sum-blee you Frenchies are sporting nowadays. I don’t see the attraction- however, I hope you take no offense, at this, sir.’ He laughed again, reaching into his coat pocket and withdrawing a handful of crumbled white. ‘Care for some popped corn? It is really quite good.’
The citizen blinked as one, then two little snowy puffs hit him in the face.
‘Oh, dear, sorry. I am so demmed clumsy.’ In an instant Sir Percy had swung out of the tree and was towering over Chauvelin. 'Here, do let me, monsewer.' The exquisite fop gaily flicked a crumb of popped corn away from the citizen's lapel. Chauvelin drew back, but found himself grasped firmly by the neck. 'So sorry, I've spoiled your cravat as well- here, allow me.' Percy daintily removed the piece of popped corn wedged in Chauvelin's cravat, then proceeded to tighten it. 'There, now you almost look like a decent fellow, eh?'