Isabella only paused to cast one stray glance over her shoulder as she
ran,
knowing that she didn't need to. Phillipe was there. He was always
there,
she noted, laughing a little to herself. Well, as much as she admired
and
simply adored his overprotective whims, she couldn't let them get the
best of
her all the time! That child could be in real distress...
At last, she turned into a lonely, secluded bend of a moonlit
side-street,
lifting her skirts daintily from the filth of the pathway, and saw the
little
boy crouched there in the corner, shivering.
Still quite distant in the echoing night, Phillipe's heavy footfalls
rang out
somewhere behind her; for a moment she thought she could even hear the
far
away gasp of his ragged, strained breathing. She thought it amusing
that her
flight had hardly left her short of breath.
Returning her attention to the small figure before her, Isabella
advanced
quietly and bent a little close to the child, reaching one hand out in
encouragement.
"Now then, little one," she began gently, "won't you tell me what---"
The words froze in her throat as a hand clamped over her shoulder, a
hand too
forceful to be Phillipe's, and whirled her around until her face rested
only
centimeters away from the biting edge of a glittering dagger.
She felt her throat constrict in horror as her eyes met those of her
attacker,
but she hadn't the power to scream.
"Well, what have we here?" a deep, husky voice said, speaking in clear,
immaculate French.
"What's a pretty thing like you doing on the streets
at
night?"
A shadowed mouth sneered.
"That is, I only ask because I doubt
the
obvious..."
Isabella twisted her arm in an effort to lossen his powerful hold on her
wrist. The man, she recognized by the large badge on his dark coat, was
a
French spy of some sort; the orderliness of his language and appearance
ruled
out the possiblity of his being a soldier. Still gripping the knife in
one
hand, the man turned to address the child, who now stood upright and was
watching with interest, perhaps even impatience.
"Good show, boy," the man said, and tossed him a coin. Giggling in
pleasure,
the boy caught the reward in one upraised hand and faded into the
darkness
from whence he had come.
The man turned to face her again; his visage was almost entirely lost in
shadow.
"Now, mamselle...I propose we skip formalities and you answer a
simple question: what were you doing in the street?"
Isabella, uncertain, didn't answer at first. "I...was walking," she
said
quietly.
"I see. And just where were you walking to, in this treacherous
neighborhood?"
No answer.
"We have received information that the Scarlet Pimpernel is to try
something
tomorrow at the Temple Prison; you wouldn't know anything about that,
would
you? Headed for the Place de la Greve at this time of night?"
We've been watched...Isabella thought frantically, and took a moment to
wonder
what might have become of Lady Hastings.
"The Scarlet Pimpernel?" she scoffed, or pretended to scoff. "What
would I
know of the Scarlet Pimpernel? And what makes you so sure I was headed
for
the Place de la Greve?"
"You've been followed. Each of the most squalid inns of Paris have been
watched today. This afternoon, a sealed note was delivered, with great
discretion, to Le Souris Verte. It all looks rather suspicious, if you
don't
mind my saying so. We've been watching you...you and a friend of
yours..."
here, the man paused to glance down the opposite end of the alley; all
was
silent. In the moonlight of half a moment, Isabella caught a glance of
dark
hair and a lean, calculating face.
"Where has he gone, by the way? On
to
your prospective rendez-vous, without you?"
"I know nothing of a rendez-vous, monsieur. And I wouldn't know where
he has
gone," Isabella said quietly. "We were simply separated."
A pause.
"You seem reluctant to answer clearly," the dark man went on.
"I
suppose I'll have to escort you down to headquarters for questioning,
then.
Come along; I have a few soldiers waiting up ahead."
And, just as he had turned to lead her into the street, where Isabella
vaguely
saw a small assembly of the said French soldiers waiting in the shadows,
she
saw the man's tall form jerk aside and drop to the dirty floor,
releasing her
wrist from his iron grip as he did so. Her eyes jolted upward and
barely made
out Phillipe's taut face. Then she noticed his clenched fist,
gripping the
length of scrap wood with which Phillipe had launched his attack.
Casting the length of wood aside and glancing once at Isabella, he knelt
to
the dark man's side and searched for a pulse. Finding one, he breathed
a
deep, desperate sigh of relief.
Rising, he extended one quavering hand.
"Come," he said, warily eyeing
the
oblivious soldiers in the distant alley, "let's get out of here before
he
wakes up."
Wordless, Isabella accepted his help and followed him out of the
twisting
alley. She found his hand clammy in a cold sweat.
It was not before they had reached the open blue Paris streets that
Isabella
met Phillipe's gaze cautiously, like a child expecting a harsh
reprimand, and
prepared to speak.
"Well," she breathed, smiling a little to conceal her shakiness, "it
looks as
though I do need someone to look out for me after all."
*~
Phillipe didn't smile back.
"Do you realize that you could have been killed? Or worse?" he shot
back, his
voice shaking. "You don't seem to realize, mamselle Charboneau, that we
risk
our lives just showing our faces in Paris."
Isabella didn't respond; Phillipe turned to her, gripped her arms
tightly, and
looked deep into her eyes. "You must understand. We have everything
against
us here: not only are we fugitives. We are traitors."
Silence.
"I'm sorry, Phillipe," she whispered. He looked at her a
moment
before taking her in his arms in forgiveness.
~*
While traversing the last remaining minutes' distance from the Place de
la
Greve, Isabella quickly told him all that the dark man had said to her,
regarding his knowledge of the Scarlet Pimpernel's plans.
"If the streets are watched, we may have a chore finding Lady Hastings,"
Phillipe noted quietly. "We must be careful."
Isabella nodded and fell a couple paces behind, watching Phillipe for
guidance. She couldn't seem to get that dark man's face out of her
mind.
Something about it haunted her...could it have been...familiarity?
Her skin rippled with a sudden chill; she quickened her step and
replaced
herself at Phillipe's side.
The night was still once more. She lifted her eyes to see the moon and
gulped
suddenly as something dark rose into the sky, where the street widened
and
came to an abrupt end just before her...she was quite alarmed to find
the moon
half masked by a shadow black but for the light gleaming white on a
single,
viscious blade.
The guillotine!
Even in the peace of the night, it was utterly terrifying. Words ran
dry at
the lonely sight of the narrow wooden frame, seated majestically on its
waiting scaffold, looking down its silver blade with arrogant eyes of
pride on
the sleeping city. Like an empress, Madame Guillotine ruled all.
Phillipe stood still for a moment to survey the Place de la Greve in
silence.
Yes, the people of France had killed the king and queen in the name of
liberty...but in the same heartbeat, Phillipe noted, they had only
enslaved
themselves to a new queen, one infinitely more cruel and hideous than
any that
had ever taken an historical throne.
Such was the hypocrisy of man.
Phillipe gently drew Isabella with him against the wall bordering their
side
of the wide blue courtyard, hidden by the shadow of the building, where
together they surveyed the Place de la Greve with impeccable caution.
Isabella whispered to Phillipe and, with one finger, indicated a cloaked
figure resting in the doorway of the opposite building.
The figure in the doorway seemed to study the couple for a hesitant
moment
before walking quietly into the street and extending one hand discreetly
into
the light. The hand brushed the air twice, at a perfect ninety-degree
angle.
Yes, that was the correct signal; it meant "all clear". Isabella took
Phillipe's arm again and, together, they crept through the shadows to
the
other end of the Place de la Greve, where Lady Hastings awaited.
*~
Lady Eliza Hastings was a woman of extreme refinement and considerable
beauty;
her face possessed, in one glance, the supercilious air of a lady and
the raw
intelliegence of a hero, rare among her respected station. Still, no
first
impression of her could begin to suggest her true identity as an
advocate and
defender of the infamous Scarlet Pimpernel. Ladies weren't expected to
even
show interest in such politics, unless, of course, they involved the
Pimpernel's hidden identity or physical appearance.
"The two of you are rather late," she noted, her tone more concerned
than
irritated. "I trust you encountered no difficulties in the streets?"
"Au contrare," Phillipe began, "Isabella had a rather startling
encounter with
some French authority of sorts in an alley back there."
Shocked into silence, Lady Hastings turned brilliant eyes to Isabella's,
as
though in a demand for quick explanation.
Uncertain, Isabella's words poured out in a jumble. "He was watching
the
streets for---well, he lured me into an alley and told me that---"
"Who told you what, child?" Lady Hastings asked hurriedly, taking
Isabella's
arms supportively. "Were you injured?"
Phillipe intervened.
"Someone working for the French authorities trapped her in the alley and
told
her that it is known that the Scarlet Pimpernel is to make one of his
escape
attempts this morning," he whispered hastily. "They've been watching
the
streets carefully for anyone potentially involved."
"They know..."said Lady Hastings, half to herself. "But how?"
"I...I don't know," Isabella broke in, suddenly afraid once more, "but
if
Phillipe hadn't come to the rescue, I would have been---"
"Arrested, yes. The authorities here look for any excuse to make an
arrest
these days."
Lady Hastings paused to squeeze Isabella's hand gently.
"But
don't you worry. You got away from him, and there's little chance he'll
even
remember your face in the morning. That is..." she glanced gingerly at
Phillipe, "you didn't...kill him, did you?"
"No. Of course not."
But perhaps it would have been better that way...
Isabella didn't tell Lady Hastings that she and Phillipe had been
watched
since their arrival; she had caused enough trouble already without the
addition that she and Phillipe were both marked by the French republic,
and
for more than one reason...
*~
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