"La Vie" (The Scarlet Pimpernel)

SINK ME! I know not what I'm about.

Yea, yea, but this is my first crack at a drabble for our dear and noble pimpernel, and, whether I do any justice to himself or to the Baroness Orczy ... eh, may le Madam Guillotine herself server my brainless head.

So, shutting my pie hole, on with ze story ...

(Yea, it's loooonnnggg ... I HAD FEEELLS!)

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  The adventurer would not die however she wished it to be smothered by honor, the home they shared in Richmond, and, yes, even her love. Selfish, rightly so, but the Frenchwoman could not hold more love for her own countrymen then did the man who carried not an ounce of their blood. How he could toss happiness, content to an unseen wind and leave - leave her - made her wonder at the love her soul's very essence shed tears for. And, when he returned those usually dark, usually wet, always warm nights, back to the red brick mansion of Richmond's house, riding careless, down the graveled drive and come singing loudly enough to wake hell's demons and the Angels alike... that was when her love of him would not be drenched in any sad remembering.

  That, was when his life and love and honor were firstly, all were possessions of the little woman who's light eyes and music voice courted every room she graced. Ah, but loving Marguerite, easy at it came, was no easy thing. It consumed that part of his soul saved but for adventure; it grounded the man like a slave to that house, and the gardens, and the little parlor and rooms she occupied so completely nowadays. There had been thoughts, ideas, when last he'd come, that she'd kept to them more then he would've liked ... no, no, it was impossible, quite. What absurdity, the thought of it. He really must be mad, quite, he'd not been home for ... for the cause. 

  A revolution, in last become a massacred slaying, darkened the world with hate filled blood. The stain could not be washed from the earth, the lives would not be brought up again, the remembrance ... no, the remembrance would not go, always haunt, forever be spoken of.

  He had not had time to linger in London, quite covered in days worth of dust and wet, when he at last reached the house. The grooms did not appear; a stable boy clambered in time to catch his master's mount as he swung himself from the saddle. Ffoukles drew in his own stead a moment, to speak with the Cheif.

  "Success, Percy," smiled the younger man.

  It was not yet morn, dusk not yet upon the grounds and earth. Blakeney returned with a smile and nodded, and with a few instructions and a farewell, let his friend leave for well earned rest, and entered the house. In moments, the butler, was at the door, with candle, scarcely presentable - poor man, he'd been abed, no doubt - but looked more relieved then surprised at his master's arrival.

  "Ah, Sir Percy, good to have you back. The lady is-"

  "She has retired, Harrison, yes, and much do I wish the same. Good man, don't bother to rouse Benyon to attend me tonight, I could'nt bare another half hour awake," and with that he was gone, leaving the man to bolt the door.

  It had been weeks, nay, months, since he'd been home. And he only knew that it could last but a few days, mayhap, even a few hours, before he would sail again. Now, even as he'd quietly arrived - late, far too late, it seemed waiting to rest eyes on her - home, truly, lost in the blue wonderment of eyes so full for him - and wash from his hazy ride through wet early morning ... no, he must see her, now, imperatively. The man found his steps taking him to his apartments so lavishly suited for Marguerite's use, not even visiting his own before he'd reached the door to her boudoir.

  There on the floor lay a long ray of light, the moon, dimmed by fog and mist and rain, shining all the same. She sat in the middle of the room, skirts but dimly illumined by the natural luminous light stretching towards her. The rest of the room looked quiet and lifeless. Long forgotten coals of the fire were ashes in the grate, a book lay at the foot of the chair she lay in swooned, languid position. The windows were drawn open, the night neither cold nor warm, and a hushed silence lingered. No sound, save her soft breathes and now and again a breeze from outside windows.

A step into the room, she started stired. Cursing himself under his breath for waking her, he stepped into the little haven, leaving the door ajar behind him. Mayhap she would too tired to receive him? But then he heard 

a softly whispered name, his own, reaching like sweet love towards him, drawing him deeper into the room, 

and in a moment, Margeuite had risen. They stood, each quiet.

She didn't run to him and throw herself into his embrace, as when he returned from weeks of separation more painful then even when she must let him go. Yet, no, there was something more. The swell of the satin dressing gown just below her rising, falling, rising breast, the tiny hand protective upon it. Halted, he stayed just at the edge of light she stood amidst, boots stuck fast to that carpeted floor and eyes ... his eyes were so ... were there but words for all said, silently, as they took her in. He would not, could not heed her sweet and demure beckoning, thought ran too slowly, too vastly, too chaotic.

"Margot..."

It fell like the prayers uttered for her safety, when no other ear save God himself would hear or heed, and all too fast, instantly deep green of the massive greatcoat swooped about her form, the husband who's absence fairly drowned her in suspense, worry, half lay at her tiny little feet in reverence, on bent knees.

"Yes, le mien, yes," she murmured in her own tongue.

  There would be no other need for words again. Instead, a question, already known, yet he must hear it from her own lips - lips that had kept him from drowning in the darkness not so far a time ago. Velvet words that made him quite dumb whilst his mind, fogged in wonderment, wild, crazed ... happiness. Oh, no other word, he could not possibly force his voice to utterance, even while soft fingers threaded into muted blonde hair and lips showered his mute ones with kisses.

A blush suffused her skin, eyes lite.

"A child?"

Her inclined heard, the soft blushes placing roses upon Marguerite's cheeks, her hand rested atop his head that leaned against the curve of her waist, the little life, so young, so pure, so unknowing of 

dangers and blood and murder and selfishness ...

"No, no, tis a puppy, mi'lor. I shall have to tell Benyon to put a little bed in the corner of the parlor, for a place when we will not want him, and you will have to take him on walks, you know, my love-"

 He hardly noticed her jest, the light laugh that seemed music. His head raised, to look at her, those lazy eyes so bright, impassioned now.

"Yes, Percy," quite serious now.

 And all else was lost. She was engulfed in his arms, the coat, the scent of wet hours of riding. He'd not rested, nor washed, nor eaten, she knew. And she doubt he would now, now he knew- how fatigued he must be, but none would know he held her so fervidly to him.

  "A child." He repeated 

  "Yes, yes, our own la vie, together. I had begun, Percy, to write you of this," accepting his tumult of kisses upon her upturned, blushing face, "So very many, many times..."

  "And did you think I could bare to hear of it in any other way then from your own sweet, dear little mouth?" his hands and fingers cradled her head, her cheeks, his eyes so close and unwavering and so full of love, "Nay, I should have fainted dead away, dem me, and then Ffoukles would've had to carry my carcass half across bloody France, in the name of dragging me back to Marguerite Blakeney, the cleverest woman in Europe!"

 His voice, that he'd kept soft, rose till he was practically shouting to the air, the world, the universe of his uncontrolled happiness and she shushed him, laughing, and weeping, and clinging to his arms. How could such happiness be withstood, much less contained? But it did not have to be.

The night slowly burned, yet neither slept. None heard the whispered prayers, the soft endearments, the breathed loves exchanged whilst the bold adventurer held his wife - his own little dear woman - and child, still clothed in his dusty greatcoat, Marguerite's golden auburn curls so softly shimmering in dewy glimmer of early morn, her lips softer then remembrance could taste, eyes a glow with some new light. And they only understand those moment, those few instances when he was nothing but her husband and she knew him to be safe.

  "And you will not leave me, Percy...?" came the murmured plea as, at last, morning dawned, slow and languidly, and she still lay so contented and drowsily within his lap.

  Oh! the ache that dully settled in the man's soul at the words. Stay, yes, stay with her, burn with her, die with her, he would've sold his spirit if it mean't he would, he could stay ... but he would not, no, cad that he was! He would leave, again, leave her and this new life, and without proper shame for he pushed thoughts of her into his innermost soul, as if the treasure of her love were too great to be known to anyone save his own, miserly self.

  "But you will," her sigh came.

  "Margot..."

  "No, no, Percy, forgive me, forgive my silly, selfish words," and the little woman clung to him tighter, soft eyes wide, "To say such while you give up ... so much ... for a cause not your own..."

 He no longer would allow her to speak, only silenced her again, with finger tips placed firstly to lips, to her eyes, and lastly, his palm against the pillowy existence of her waist. And in this, she knew what he mean't, she knew what he could not say, she knew ... oh, she knew, she was loved by the man who was known by the world as the fool, the fop and only to precious few in his true personality - the reckless, hapless, mad and brave man who did indeed fight a cause not his own.

  A cause, now, so much more dangerous.