Work Text:
Bulogne-Sur -Mer, France
October 1804
As the afternoon shadows lengthened and the tide receded, the bustling port city of Bulogne laid aside the labors of the day. A slight grey haired man, strolling through the town square, lifted his head when the bell in the Cathedral rang out five times. At this signal his steps quickened and he began to thread his way through the cobblestone streets. Armand Chauvelin had an appointment to keep.
Soon he paused under a wooden sign with three golden arrows painted on it. It stood over the door to a small bistro, brightly lit and full of the aromas of cooking. Les Trois Fleches may not have been the most luxurious of accommodations, but it was clean and comfortable. Chauvelin, who had dined in the Court of St. James and in squalid cellars during the Terror, found that the bustle of travelers and merchant seaman suited him well.
He was M. Chauvelin in these days of the new French Empire. Citizen Chauvelin, special agent of the French Republic, was now an obscure civil servant who had been lucky to escape with his life after the end of the Terror. But caution had been ingrained in him, in 10 years after the fall of Robespierre. He took a seat at a back table where he could wait with his back to the wall and his face in shadow whilst he kept a watchful eye on the door.
He was nursing a glass of thin red wine, when a tall man in a greatcoat and beaver hat ducked through the door and approached his table. There were fine lines at the corner of the smiling blue eyes and the fair hair was touched with grey at the temples, but the figure was unmistakably that of Sir Percival Blakeney, Bart. Percy Blakeney, his old nemesis –the Scarlet Pimpernel.
The pleasant English drawl was also unchanged. “Your servant, sir. I trust I have not inconvenienced you unduly by my delay- the port grows busier every year, I fear.”
“Not at all milor,” Chauvelin answered dryly. “ I find that my time is not in such demand, these days. I am quite at your disposal.”
Percy smiled genially and signaled the innkeeper. Soon the two men were sitting over a plate of bread, cheese, and the local eau-de-vie.
When the innkeeper turned away, Percy handed over a square of oilcloth, tied with twine and sealed with wax. “Your news from England, Monsieur,” he said, “It may be… the last such for a while. No sense in borrowing trouble, but I know not if I will be able to dock in Boulogne if our two countries come to open war.”
Chauvelin took the packet with barely restrained eagerness and broke the seal. His little Fleurette’s handwriting flowed across the page in lovely convent-school swirls.
My beloved father,
Again from England I send you my greetings, and my hopes that this letter finds you in good health. I think of you daily and pray to Le Bon Dieu that He keep you safe and well.
Our family continues to prosper here. Though we miss France and wish that it were safe for us to return, England is now our home.
My Amedie continues to work for Milor Blakeney near his home in Richmond. There are several families from France in the village, and although our P’tit Armand speaks English very well, we are able to contrive that our children also learn the language of their parents’ homeland. Should you ever meet him, Armand will be able to speak with you in French.
Milady Blakeney and her brother M. Saint Just have established a school in the village and Armand has begun to learn his letters and numbers. When he comes home from school he writes them on a slate to show his little brother.
P’tit Amedie follows his brother everywhere and is quite indignant that he cannot go to school himself. I remind him, often, that next year will be the time.
I also send you joyous news. In the Spring we will be welcoming another child, a baby brother or sister for Armand and Amedie. And so I renew my plea- will you not come to England to live near us? Perhaps there will be another little girl to call you her cheri Bibi.
I must confess that I fear for you with France at war, again. Everyone here says the Emperor Napoleon will be at war with England, soon. I would be far easier in my mind if I knew that you were safe in the bosom of your family. Please consider this-Milor would help you, I know.
Amedie sends you his best regards and the children their love.
Your loving daughter,
Fleur
Chauvelin refolded the letter and tucked the pages in the pocket of his greatcoat.
“My yacht lies at anchor,” Blakeney remarked quietly.
For am moment Chauvelin’s face seemed to soften in the firelight. An attentive observer might have noticed, perhaps, a trace of moisture in his eyes.
At last he shook his head. “No. It is better this way.”
‘Would you not wish to makes some reply?”
The Frenchman paused, and shook his head. Then he removed his cravat pin and pulled a signet ring off his finger. He wrapped them in a handkerchief and laid them on the table.
“ Nothing that could be traced. But take this, if you would, for the boys. From their Grandfather.”
Percy nodded. “Very well.”
There did not seem to be anything more to say. Percy rose, left some coins on the table, and picked up his hat and walking stick.
“Until next year, M. Chambertin. If I can come I’ll send word of when to expect me in the usual way.”
His old adversary stood as well. He did not extend a hand, but inclined his head courteously and bowed.
“Very well. Until next year, milor.”
Chauvelin finished his drink and watched as the tall figure made its way across the room, turned a corner, and disappeared.
His fingers strayed to touch the pocket where Fleurette’s letter rested.
“Et le combat cessa, faute de combatants” he murmured to himself.
Blakeney, damn his eyes, had a most unusual way of hitting back.
(The combat ceased, lacking combatants-Pierre Corneille- Le Cid )