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Prologue
EXT. PLACE DE LA RÉVOLUTION, PARIS — NIGHT (1792)
Thunder cracks across a storm-laden sky. The GUILLOTINE towers over a sea of torches and jeering faces.
A drumroll pounds as a NOBLE FAMILY — a man, his wife, their daughter — are dragged toward the scaffold.
The crowd roars: “À la guillotine! À la guillotine!”
A MOTHER clutches her child, whispering a prayer. Soldiers pull them apart. The blade gleams in the lightning.
Suddenly—shouts ripple from the far end of the square. A COACH bursts forward, wheels cutting through the mud. Guards give chase, muskets firing.
In the chaos, the condemned family vanishes into the shadows.
On the guillotine steps, left behind in the churned mud, lies a small red flower — delicate, defiant.
The crowd goes still. Murmurs ripple: “Le Mouron Ecarlate… The Scarlet Pimpernel.”
CUT TO BLACK.
TEXT ON SCREEN:
France, 1792. The Reign of Terror. While thousands perish beneath the blade, whispers rise of an Englishman who risks everything to save the innocent…
ACT I — The Mask of Society
SCENE 1 — OPENING CREDITS / PARIS AT NIGHT
EXT. PLACE DE LA RÉVOLUTION — NIGHT
A STORM lashes Paris. The GUILLOTINE towers, black against lightning. A NOBLE FAMILY (parents, a teen daughter) is hustled to the scaffold by NATIONAL GUARDS.
Crowd CHANTS: “À LA LANTERNE!”
In the shadows: A COACHMAN adjusts his hat; a FISHMONGER hefts a basket; a LIMPING SOLDIER warms his hands—ordinary faces.
The DRUMS roll. The blade IGNORES the rain.
From the crowd, a gloved hand slips the teen girl a folded note: a tiny red pimpernel stamped in wax.
FISHMONGER (low, quick)
Left alley. Now.
The FISHMONGER drops the basket—FLOPS OPEN—revealing rope, cloaks, forged passes. The COACHMAN whistles. The LIMPING SOLDIER suddenly straightens—no limp—dispatches a guard with two precise moves.
CHAUVELLIN (O.S.)
Stop them! The English devil is here!
TORCHES flare. A FRENZIED PURSUIT through rain-slick alleys. The family vanishes into the COACH; reins snap; wheels splinter puddles. A GUARD lunges—
The COACHMAN flicks him aside, hats pulled low. Lightning silhouettes the SCARLET PIMPERNEL—just a suggestion: a cape, a profile, a smile.
The coach thunders into the night, leaving behind a single red flower on the guillotine steps.
SMASH TO BLACK.
SCENE 2 — CHAUVELLIN’S FURY
INT. COMMITTEE OFFICE — NIGHT
A sparse room. MAPS of Paris with pins. Wanted bills: “L’Anglais: Le Mouron Ecarlate.”
CITIZEN CHAUVELLIN, elegant and predatory, studies a soaked GUARD trembling by the door.
CHAUVELLIN
Describe him.
GUARD
No face, citizen. Only… laughter. Like he enjoyed it.
Chauvelin plucks the pimpernel seal from the table, weighs it.
CHAUVELLIN
He enjoys making us reach. Then he moves the prize. (beat)
Double the watchers on the quays, the post roads, the inns at Calais.
(to self)
And if the fox is English… we hunt in England.
He crushes the wax between his fingers.
SCENE 3 — CROSS-CHANNEL CONTRAST
EXT. BLENHEIM-ESQUE ESTATE — DAY
SUNSHINE, music, laughter. An extravagant GARDEN PARTY. Color, champagne, little dogs, archery, gossip.
SIR PERCY BLAKENEY—immaculately overdressed, a vision of foolish splendor—demonstrates a RIDICULOUS new fashion: a lace cravat so large it needs a footman.
PERCY (grandly)
Observe—the “Niagara.” So very wet this season.
Laughter. The PRINCE OF WALES wheezes with delight.
LADY MARGUERITE BLAKENEY, luminous, poised, watches from a shaded pergola. Admirers encircle her; she smiles with practiced ease.
PRINCE OF WALES
Blakeney, you are the dullest spark and the brightest candle I know.
PERCY (bow)
Your Royal Highness—may I never illuminate more than is strictly trivial.
Across the lawns, Percy’s eyes flick—just once—to a discreet VALET who gives the faintest nod.
Marguerite catches the glance, unreadable.
SCENE 4 — MARGUERITE’S GLOW / THE DISTANCE
INT. BALLROOM — NIGHT
Strings sweep. Mirrors double the glitter. Marguerite commands the room with wit and kindness.
ADMIRER
Your French salons must be poor cousins to this.
MARGUERITE (cool charm)
In Paris, conversation is a blade. Here, a feather. Both tickle. Only one bleeds.
Laughter. She turns—and nearly collides with Percy.
PERCY (foppish flourish)
Lady Blakeney, you eclipse every chandelier. I am but a moth in mourning.
MARGUERITE
Then avoid the flame, Sir Percy.
A beat. Their smiles don’t reach their eyes.
PERCY (light)
Yes, yes, flame entirely unsuitable—terrible for the complexion.
He drifts away, performing absurdities. Marguerite watches, the ache she will not name flickering beneath restraint.
A COURIER slips Marguerite a small envelope. She hides it in her glove.
SCENE 5 — CHAUVELLIN ARRIVES
EXT. LONDON STREET / FRENCH EMBASSY — NIGHT
A black carriage stops. Chauvelin, now in diplomatic black, steps out, shakes off rain. He studies the embassy brass plate, then the fog.
INT. EMBASSY SALON — LATER
Chauvelin receives a dossier: sketches of English aristocrats, shipping times, coded messages. A portrait of Marguerite slips into view.
ATTACHÉ
Formerly of the Comédie-Française. Now Lady Blakeney.
Chauvelin’s interest sharpens.
ATTACHÉ (cont.)
Her brother, Armand St. Just. A known… sympathizer.
Chauvelin smiles slightly, like a cat that’s scented cream.
CHAUVELLIN
Invite Lady Blakeney to a harmless little supper. We shall reminisce about Paris.
SCENE 6 — ARMAND’S LETTER / THE THREAT
INT. LADY’S DRESSING ROOM — NIGHT
Silk, mirrors, a private quiet. Marguerite locks the door, opens the envelope from Scene 4. A crumpled note in a familiar hand:
ARMAND (V.O., shaky, over images of a dim prison corridor)
Sister—do not be alarmed. I help certain men escape the worst. There is talk of arrests. If I do not write again—do not come to Paris.
Marguerite presses the letter to her lips. A KNOCK.
FOOTMAN (through door)
A caller from the French embassy, my lady.
Marguerite stiffens.
INT. SMALL SALON — MOMENTS LATER
Chauvelin stands with perfect courtesy, hat in hand.
CHAUVELLIN
Madame St. Just—pardon—Lady Blakeney. England becomes you.
(then, soft)
Paris has become… less hospitable. Your brother is cited in unfortunate proceedings.
Marguerite’s mask fractures an instant.
MARGUERITE
If you touch him—
CHAUVELLIN (gently)
I cannot protect everyone. But friends assist friends.
(beat; lays down a parchment)
Find me the Englishman who toys with our Republic—the one who signs with a flower—and your brother’s name vanishes from that list.
He bows, almost tender.
CHAUVELLIN (cont.)
You always had a talent for discernment, Marguerite. Use it… for family.
He exits. Marguerite stands alone, breath shallow, the parchment roaring in her ears.
She turns—and in the mirror, catches sight of the garden below: Percy, playing buffoon to a circle of laughing guests.
Marguerite crushes the parchment in her fist.
CUT TO BLACK.
SCENE 7 — PRINCE OF WALES BANTER
INT. CLUB OF THE GILDED LILY — NIGHT
A smoky gentlemen’s club. The PRINCE OF WALES sprawls with brandy, laughing too loudly. Percy performs an absurd recitation, gesturing with a lace kerchief.
PRINCE OF WALES
Blakeney, you are as mad as a March hare and twice as ornamental.
PERCY (bowing extravagantly)
A hare, perhaps. But mad? Only for the latest cravat.
The Prince roars. Percy’s EYES flick toward a discreet ally across the room—LORD ANTONY DEWHURST, who subtly taps a folded paper against his knee. The League is waiting.
SCENE 8 — THE LEAGUE OF THE PIMPERNEL
INT. SECRET WINE CELLAR — NIGHT
A hidden cellar beneath Percy’s estate. Maps, disguises, coded notes spread across a long oak table. Around it: Percy’s trusted League of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
LORD ANTONY
Three families, scheduled for trial by week’s end. If we wait—
PERCY (drops the foppish mask, suddenly sharp)
We do not wait. Waiting means heads in baskets.
The men nod. For a fleeting moment, the mask slips: Percy as strategist, leader, iron in his tone.
PERCY (resumes languid drawl)
Well then, gentlemen, let us pretend to play cards while arranging miracles. Hearts are trumps, I believe.
Laughter masks urgency.
SCENE 9 — MARGUERITE’S DOUBTS
INT. BLAKENEY ESTATE — NIGHT
Marguerite wanders the halls, candle in hand. She overhears muffled voices below—the League disbanding. She leans over a balcony, catches fragments: “Calais… midnight tide… papers forged.”
Her candle trembles. Percy emerges, foppish mask firmly in place.
PERCY (grand flourish)
Ah, my lady with the lantern! Hunting ghosts? Or husbands?
MARGUERITE (careful)
Both, perhaps.
A long silence. He smiles foolishly, bows, and drifts away. She watches, suspicion tightening into ache.
SCENE 10 — ROMANTIC DISTANCE
INT. BEDCHAMBER — NIGHT
Candlelight flickers. Marguerite sits by the vanity, still dressed from the ball. Percy, removing his absurd cravat, looks at her through the mirror.
MARGUERITE (soft)
Why do you mock me with masks? Once you loved me without disguise.
PERCY (quietly)
Perhaps I learned love needs disguises.
MARGUERITE
Or perhaps… it needs truth.
A long silence. Percy’s eyes betray longing, then shutter again behind the buffoon’s mask. He kisses her hand lightly, formally—then withdraws.
She is left alone, tears she refuses to shed.
ACT II — Betrayal and Revelation
SCENE 11 — CHAUVELLIN’S DEADLINE
INT. LONDON EMBASSY — DAY
Marguerite sits across from Chauvelin at a pristine desk. He sets down a sealed decree with Armand’s name at the top.
CHAUVELLIN
Tomorrow he hangs, unless the Pimpernel’s identity crosses this desk tonight.
Marguerite trembles. Chauvelin leans closer, voice almost tender.
CHAUVELLIN (cont.)
You and I both know who lives behind those masks of lace and laughter.
Tell me, Marguerite. Whisper once. And save your brother.
Her knuckles whiten against the chair.
SCENE 12 — MARGUERITE’S BETRAYAL
INT. BALLROOM / SOCIETY SUPPER — NIGHT
A glittering supper, music playing. Percy performs another foolish anecdote; guests roar. Chauvelin watches from a shadowed alcove.
Marguerite, pale, is drawn into conversation by Chauvelin’s “chance” approach. He asks about travel plans, feigns casual interest in ports.
MARGUERITE (uneasy, distracted)
He… he spoke of Calais. Perhaps. I am not certain.
Chauvelin bows, lips curling with satisfaction. He departs silently, like a predator vanishing.
Across the hall, Percy—laughing with the Prince—glances once at Marguerite. His smile flickers, almost imperceptibly.
Marguerite realizes, too late, that her words may have condemned him.
FADE OUT.
SCENE 13 — THE REVELATION
INT. BLAKENEY ESTATE — LIBRARY / HIDDEN ROOM — NIGHT
Rain needles the windows. Marguerite slips into the library, closes the door, scans the shelves… and finds a concealed latch behind a leather atlas.
A panel clicks. She enters a narrow passage.
INT. HIDDEN ROOM — CONTINUOUS
Lanterns, maps of Paris, coded ledgers, wigs, uniforms, forged passes. On the desk: a signet bearing the red pimpernel.
Her breath catches. She touches a folded opera cloak and a plain rapier beside it.
From the doorway, a voice:
PERCY (O.S.)
It does cut the heart rather—when the one soul you long to trust finds you out like a thief.
Marguerite turns. Percy stands in shadow—no foppish grin, only the soldier’s stillness.
MARGUERITE (whisper)
You… it was always you.
A beat. The truth floods both of them—love, fear, and the cost of secrecy.
SCENE 14 — CONFESSION
INT. HIDDEN ROOM — MOMENTS LATER
Close, quiet. The storm muffled by stone.
MARGUERITE
I told him Calais. I did not know. Percy, I did not know.
PERCY (gentle, steady)
You did what any sister would. I should never have asked you to live beside a ghost.
He offers a chair; she does not sit.
MARGUERITE (desperate)
Let me come. Let me atone.
PERCY (almost smiles)
You’ve married an imbecile, remember? Lace first, heroics last.
He sobers.
PERCY (cont.)
I go tonight. Armand’s on a list. Others, too. If I fail, they die. If I succeed—
(soft)
I come home to you without masks.
Marguerite steps in, takes his hand.
MARGUERITE
Then we remove them now. All of them.
He leans his brow to hers. The moment is theirs—pure, unguarded—before the world crashes back in.
A discreet KNOCK from the secret door.
LORD ANTONY (through panel)
Tide waits for no man, Percy.
Percy squeezes her hand once, lets go.
SCENE 15 — DEPARTURE TO FRANCE
EXT. DOVER CLIFF ROAD — NIGHT
Wind-whipped darkness. A plain coach rolls with lamps hooded. Inside: Percy and two League men, silent, focused.
EXT. DOVER BEACH — LATER
A small sloop rocks at anchor. Sailors move like shadows. Percy dons a coarse seaman’s coat, tucks the signet away.
LORD ANTONY
Calais is watched. We’ve a fisherman’s berth at Saint-Inglevert—quiet inlet, north of the main road.
PERCY (light again, for his men)
Excellent. I’ve been meaning to try the cuisine where they serve fear with every course.
They clasp forearms. Percy boards.
WIDER: On the cliff path above, a cloaked figure watches—Marguerite, breath white in the wind. A small satchel over her shoulder. She waits until the sail ghosts into black, then slips away along a different path.
SCENE 16 — PARISIAN STREETS
EXT. PARIS — DAWN / DAY
Gray dawn over a city of placards and pikes. The guillotine drips from the night’s harvest.
Percy, in the dress of a sans-culotte, moves with the tide—rough cap, soot on his jaw. He buys chestnuts, trades barbs, notes posters: “Reward for the Anglais.”
INT. SAFE CELLAR — DAY
A trapdoor lifts. Percy drops into a cramped space where a PRIEST in hiding tends to two shivering nobles. A knock pattern—three–two—answers from beyond.
ALLY (whisper)
Armand St. Just—moved to the Rue des Fossés prison. Trial at sundown.
PERCY (quiet calculation)
Then sundown becomes sunrise, and sunrise becomes the sea.
He unrolls a map, marking alleys, drains, a sewer run beneath the wall.
SCENE 17 — THE INN TRAP
INT. TAVERN “L’ABREUVOIR” — DUSK
Smoky, loud, suspicious. Percy—now disguised as a limping cartman—takes a table near the hearth, watches the door.
A WAITER sets down wine, lingers too long. Another PATRON at the back doesn’t drink. The room is a net.
From the lane: a woman in a maid’s cloak slips inside, head lowered—Marguerite. She moves to Percy’s table without looking at him.
MARGUERITE (barely moving lips)
Chauvelin at the rear, four men outside, two at the stairs. He knows Calais. He’ll move you before nightfall.
PERCY (without turning)
My love, you should be in England.
MARGUERITE
So should you.
A subtle commotion—CHAUVELLIN enters with a casual smile, posts men with a glance.
CHAUVELLIN
Good evening, citizens. I find I crave… English wine.
The WAITER produces a bottle with a red ribbon—signal. The room tightens.
Percy pushes back from the table, lurch-limping toward the bar—then stumbles hard into a barrel. Wine gushes—panic—shouts—candles snuffed.
In the dark, a powder flash—smoke—coughing—tables overturn.
Hands grasp Marguerite—Percy’s hands—pulling her through a back door he’d unlatched minutes before.
EXT. ALLEY — CONTINUOUS
They burst into rain. Boots thunder behind. Percy yanks a rope—a stack of crates crashes down, blocking the alley.
PERCY (grin through smoke)
Apologies—my limp acts up when cornered.
He ushers her into the maze of lanes.
SCENE 18 — CHAUVELLIN’S WRATH
INT. TAVERN — MOMENTS LATER
Smoke clears. Chauvelin surveys the wreckage—glittering calm over a rising fury. He picks up the red ribboned bottle, uncorks, pours, tastes.
CHAUVELLIN (to himself)
English wine. Always a little thin. Always leaving a sting.
He turns to his CAPTAIN.
CHAUVELLIN (cold)
Double the men at the Rue des Fossés. Guard the sewer grates, the tannery, the old Carmelite cellar—he favors the forgotten doors.
And post watch at Saint-Inglevert. If he runs to sea, I’ll be waiting at the cliffs.
He sets the bottle down with surgical precision.
CHAUVELLIN (soft, lethal)
Bring me Lady Blakeney alive.
EXT. PARIS ROOFTOPS — NIGHT
Percy and Marguerite crouch behind a chimney. The city sprawls—torches, proclamations, fear.
He checks the street below: patrols split, exactly as calculated.
PERCY (low)
You bought me minutes with danger. I’ll spend them on Armand.
MARGUERITE (meets his eyes)
On Armand—and on us.
They share one swift kiss—an oath rather than a goodbye—then drop into the shadows, moving in opposite directions: she to mislead, he to liberate.
CUT TO BLACK.
SCENE 19 — IMPRISONMENT OF ARMAND
INT. RUE DES FOSSÉS PRISON — DINGY CELL — DUSK
A narrow cell lit by a single barred window. ARMAND ST. JUST, gaunt but defiant, hums an old French ditty to steady himself. He traces the faint scratches on the wall—names of time passed.
A gaoler throws a stale loaf through the bars.
GAOLER (gruff)
Quiet hours. No music, no plotting.
Armand presses his palm to the bars and, in the shadows beyond, whispers a prayer.
ARMAND (soft)
If Marguerite finds light, may it be enough.
A muffled commotion above—the sound of feet, orders barked. A SOLDIER drags a newcomer past the cell: an OLD WOMAN who collapses in the corridor. Armand’s eyes scan for any sign of hope—and find none.
CUT TO:
SCENE 20 — THE NETWORK
INT. CRAMPED SAFE HOUSE — NIGHT
A candlelit room with a crooked table. Percy meets French sympathizers—a PRIEST, a TANNERY WORKER, a WOMAN WHOSE HUSBAND WAS EXECUTED. They speak in hurried whispers.
PRIEST
The sewer under Rue des Fossés—old maintenance tunnel—leads within thirty paces of the southern wall. The guards change at first bell.
TANNERY WORKER
There’s a cart route—used for hides. They cross the yard at dusk. A cart and false papers, and a man in a red cap can pass.
PERCY (measured)
We time the cart, the drain, and the dawn. Antony, you take the cart. I will have a man at the yard gate. The priest will hold the back exit.
LADY TANNER (hand on her heart)
If we fail, they hang us all.
PERCY (quiet, iron)
Then we will not fail.
They clasp hands—a vow of risk and life. Marguerite watches from the doorway, resolute and pale.
SCENE 21 — PRISON SCOUTING
EXT. PRISON WALLS — NIGHT
Percy moves like a shadow along the outer wall. He studies guard rotations—silent clocks of footsteps. He peers through a narrow slit and sees Armand pacing. He marks a small, loose stone at the base of the wall.
PERCY (whisper to Antony)
Three men at the southern gate. Cart enters at dusk. The sentry by the tannery takes his second pipe at half-past.
ANTONY (nods)
We’ll be there.
Marguerite’s hand finds Percy’s sleeve; she squeezes once. He gives her a look—steel softened by gratitude.
PERCY
Stay hidden until the signal. If you must act—draw their eyes away. Do not come to the yard.
MARGUERITE (firm)
I will do whatever keeps Armand safe.
He raises an eyebrow—admirable, reckless—and disappears into the night.
SCENE 22 — THE BREAKOUT PLAN
INT. TUNNEL ENTRY — BENEATH AN ABANDONED TANNERY — NIGHT
A low, damp entrance smells of lime and hides. Percy, Antony, the PRIEST, and two allies shoulder a wheelbarrow. They fit a forged guard’s coat onto one of them.
PRIEST (hushed)
The drains fork twice. Take the left, then the second grate—there is rope tied to an iron ring beneath the western wall.
ANTONY (checking map)
The cart must stall at the yard gate for exactly two minutes—the signal is Marguerite’s candle at the east window.
Marguerite, covered in a maid’s cloak, climbs the tannery’s east stair until she reaches an upper window. She pauses, steadying a trembling candle—her breath fogs the glass.
She holds the candle.
Below, the cart creaks into view. Percy gulps air, counts under his breath.
PERCY (soft)
Now.
Marguerite tilts the candle; the flame announces itself like a distant star.
SCENE 23 — TUNNEL RUN
INT. DAMP DRAIN/TUNNEL — NIGHT
They crawl through narrow brick, water licking their ankles. Rats scuttle. The wheelbarrow hits a band of silt; hands shove. Percy leads, the priest murmuring prayers beneath his breath.
They reach the iron ring—Percy slips a short blade under rust, works it free. Voices above—the GUARDS—grow louder. A step—then another—directly over the tunnel’s thin arch.
ANTONY (urgent whisper)
Hurry—now.
They push the ring aside and hoist a ladder through a grate into the yard. The priests’ palms smear with grime as they lift the last, muffled with the weight of a life.
From the yard: a CLANG. A cry. The cart has stalled—two minutes elapsed, then three.
Suddenly—FOOTSTEPS converge under the tannery. A GUARD leans over the grate, peering, then drops a lantern down the shaft. The flame gutters.
PERCY (under breath)
Hold.
A moment of gravity—ears strain—the air so thin it seems to pulse.
Then—Marguerite, frantic, dashes across the yard and collides with a SENTINEL. She feigns a stumble, letting loose a shriek. The sentry’s head turns. Percy freezes, a ladder in hand. A boot slams down; the grate clangs shut—someone below curses.
A VOICE (from above)
Who’s there?
Percy’s heart is a hammer. He glances at Antony; Antony’s face is nitrate pale.
PERCY (whisper)
One more breath—one more.
He gives the iron ring a shove. The ladder catches the top lip. They haul the first prisoner up—Armand’s face streaked with tears. He whispers Marguerite’s name, which steadies her.
As the last man climbs, a shout—Chauvelin’s voice—over the yard.
CHAUVELLIN (O.S.)
Seize them! The English fox is here!
A flurry—boots, shouts, lanterns. A guard swings a torch over the grate. Sparks rain down. A hand reaches for the ladder—then slips.
Antony lashes out, knocking the torch—darkness, muffled screams, a scramble, then—Percy yanks the last man up and flings the ladder as a shield. They tumble into a cart as a group of guards stamp into the tannery yard.
They are not yet free.
SCENE 24 — NEAR CAPTURE
EXT. TANNERY YARD — NIGHT
The cart jolts; horses snort as they spur away. Guards pour into the yard, weapons raised. Chauvelin strides forward, torch held high like an accusing finger.
CHAUVELLIN (smiling, terrible)
Brave Englishmen. Did you think the sea forgives all trespass?
Percy, with Armand slumped in the cart, kneels and pushes a crate over, revealing the League men—faces smeared, hearts hammering.
PERCY (loud, controlled)
Fisherman! You promised safe passage. Move—now!
The cart lurches. Horses pull. A spear grazes Percy’s sleeve. A dragnet of muskets swings. A shot—wild—splinters wood. Percy slaps a hand to Armand’s brow, checking for life.
Marguerite, pushed and shoved, meets Chauvelin’s eyes. He smiles with a predator’s tenderness.
CHAUVELLIN (to Marguerite)
You did well to light the candle, my dear. You shine so brightly.
Her jaw tightens. In the cart, Armand murmurs.
ARMAND (weak)
Sister—
Marguerite clamps a fist so hard her knuckles blanch.
MARGUERITE (low, fierce)
Live. Go.
Percy gives the reins a savage jerk. The cart bolts through the gate—a narrow squeeze. Guards swing at the sides; a man falls. A torch ignites the cart’s tail—flame kisses straw. They burst into the dark lanes.
Chauvelin watches them vanish, one red pimpernel seed of hope in his hand—then he snaps it between his fingers and steps back, plotting anew.
CUT TO BLACK.
ACT III — Escape and Legacy
SCENE 25 — DARING DISGUISE
INT. PRISON YARD — NIGHT
Torches sputter. A cart creaks across cobblestones. Percy, now disguised as a revolutionary officer with false papers, strides alongside.
His voice drops an octave, rough with Parisian slang.
PERCY (to guard)
Bread delivery. Committee orders. Signed, stamped, cursed by every saint.
The guard yawns, waves him through. Percy’s eyes flick to the barred windows—one candle burns faintly behind the iron: Armand’s cell.
SCENE 26 — THE LIBERATION
INT. PRISON CELL — MOMENTS LATER
A gaoler snores at a desk. Percy slips in with keys lifted from a hook. He kneels by Armand, who stirs, weak.
ARMAND (whisper)
Percy…?
PERCY (smile)
Yes, yes, but keep your voice low. I’ve a reputation to uphold—hero by night, idiot by day.
He frees the shackles. Armand collapses into his arms. Percy props him up, scanning the corridor.
Through a narrow gap: Marguerite’s candle signal, trembling against the night. His eyes warm, then harden.
PERCY (cont.)
Time to vanish, brother.
SCENE 27 — CHAUVELLIN’S CONFRONTATION
EXT. PRISON YARD — CONTINUOUS
Percy leads Armand and two nobles toward the cart. From the shadows, Chauvelin steps forward, immaculate even in the gloom.
CHAUVELLIN
So the hare reveals his paws.
(beat)
Sir Percy Blakeney—your cravat was always a little too fine for mud.
Gasps from the prisoners. Percy’s mask doesn’t slip—he bows flamboyantly.
PERCY
Citizen Chauvelin! What an honor. You flatter me—I usually limp on the other leg.
Chauvelin’s men close in, torches rising.
SCENE 28 — MARGUERITE’S STAND
INT. PRISON GALLERY / BALCONY — SAME
Marguerite appears on the upper walkway, holding a lantern high. Her voice rings clear.
MARGUERITE
Chauvelin! Look to the gates! The League storms from the east!
Guards whirl, panic flickers. Percy seizes the moment—hurls sand from his pouch into the torches. Sparks fizzle. Smoke blooms. Prisoners surge.
Percy lifts Armand onto the cart; the League men whip the reins. Horses rear.
From the balcony, Chauvelin locks eyes with Marguerite—betrayal, fury, admiration mingling.
CHAUVELLIN (soft, to himself)
Even angels conspire with devils.
SCENE 29 — THE CHASE
EXT. PARIS STREETS — NIGHT
The cart clatters over cobblestones, sparks flying. Guards give chase on horseback, torches streaming behind.
Percy drives like a madman, cloak whipping, Armand slumped beside him. Marguerite clings to the rail.
A musket fires—splinters Percy’s sleeve. He grins, defiant.
PERCY
Terrible marksmen. England still breeds the better foxhunters.
They careen into a narrow alley. Horses scrape walls. A barrel topples, scattering sparks. One guard crashes, trampled. Still more thunder behind.
SCENE 30 — THE BORDER ESCAPE
EXT. FRENCH COUNTRYSIDE — NIGHT
The cart bursts free of the city gates into open fields. A pale moon lights their flight. Ahead, distant cliffs—Saint-Inglevert, the hidden cove.
ANTONY (from cart, breathless)
The sloop waits—if we reach the shore, we live!
Percy snaps reins, wheels churning mud. Behind, Chauvelin’s horsemen crest the ridge, black against the silver horizon.
Marguerite clutches Armand, whispers in his ear.
MARGUERITE
Hold, brother. England lies just beyond the tide.
The camera pulls wide: cart and riders streaking toward the dark sea, torches flaring behind, destiny rushing forward.
FADE TO BLACK.
SCENE 31 — BOAT TO ENGLAND
EXT. SAINT-INGLEVERT COVE — NIGHT
Waves crash against jagged rocks. The sloop waits, sails furled, men holding torches low. Percy drives the cart straight into the shallows. The horses balk; League men unyoke them, shoving prisoners toward the skiff.
Chauvelin’s riders appear on the ridge, torches blazing. Muskets fire—shots whistle past. Percy whirls, sword flashing. He parries two strikes, knocks a rider into the surf.
Marguerite helps haul Armand aboard, skirts drenched. She turns—sees Percy battling three soldiers at once.
MARGUERITE (crying out)
Percy!
He grins back at her through the chaos—bloodied, brilliant. With a last feint, he vaults into the skiff. The League pushes off. Oars dip. Muskets crack again, sparks on water.
Wide shot: The small boat vanishes into the fog, leaving Chauvelin fuming on the cliff.
SCENE 32 — RECONCILIATION
INT. SLOOP — OPEN SEA — DAWN
Gentle waves. Dawn breaks, pale gold over the Channel. Percy leans against the mast, exhausted but smiling. Marguerite kneels beside him, trembling.
MARGUERITE
I nearly lost you—by my own hand.
PERCY (soft)
You nearly saved me—by your courage.
They share a stillness, eyes meeting with no masks left.
ARMAND (weak, but smiling)
If you two are done with your confessions, perhaps you’ll let me live long enough to see England.
They laugh—tired, whole, alive. Percy draws Marguerite close; their foreheads touch as the sunrise crowns them.
SCENE 33 — RETURN TO SOCIETY
INT. BLENHEIM-ESQUE ESTATE — BALLROOM — NIGHT
Another glittering evening. Aristocrats chatter, oblivious to Paris. Percy reappears, resplendent, resuming his foppish mask with ease.
PERCY (to Prince of Wales)
Your Highness, I recommend wider cravats—they hide double chins and double lives.
The Prince howls with laughter. The crowd titters. Marguerite, across the room, watches him perform. Their eyes meet. This time, her smile is not strained—it’s a secret.
Behind the mask, Percy’s gaze softens.
SCENE 34 — FINAL IMAGE
INT. PERCY’S STUDY — LATE NIGHT
The house is quiet. Percy enters his private study. He removes his cravat, drops the buffoon’s posture, exhales. Marguerite joins him, lays a hand on his shoulder.
On the desk: a single red pimpernel flower, freshly cut, resting beside a map of France.
Percy picks it up, twirls it between his fingers, and places it carefully back down.
PERCY (quiet, to Marguerite)
So long as tyrants sharpen their blades… we must be sharper still.
She clasps his hand. The camera lingers on the flower.
FADE OUT.
Epilogue
INT. BLENHEIM ESTATE — STUDY — NIGHT
The house is quiet. Rain has faded to a soft patter. A single candle burns in Percy’s study.
PERCY enters, no longer the painted fool, but the man he truly is — worn, clever, resolute. He sets down his rapier and removes the ridiculous lace cravat, folding it neatly away.
MARGUERITE follows, her gown trailing softly, her face lit with the serenity of relief. She rests a hand on his shoulder; he covers it with his own.
On the desk lies a folded map of France. Upon it, a fresh red pimpernel flower.
PERCY (quietly, almost to himself)
So long as tyranny sharpens its blade, we must remain sharper still.
MARGUERITE leans close, her voice tender but strong.
MARGUERITE
Then we stand together. Always.
They clasp hands, their faces illuminated by the candlelight. The camera lingers on the flower — fragile, yet unyielding.
The screen fades slowly to black.
TEXT ON SCREEN:
The Scarlet Pimpernel was the first of many heroes with a secret identity. But his greatest disguise was love itself.
FADE OUT.
Short Bios:
Baroness Emmuska Orczy (1865–1947)
Baroness Orczy was a Hungarian-born British novelist, playwright, and artist. Best known for creating The Scarlet Pimpernel in 1905, she pioneered the concept of the masked hero with a secret identity — a character type that later inspired figures such as Zorro and Batman. Her novel, originally a stage play, became an enduring classic of romantic adventure and spawned sequels, stage adaptations, and films. Orczy wrote numerous historical novels, often celebrating gallantry and noble sacrifice, but The Scarlet Pimpernel remains her defining work and a cornerstone of the swashbuckling genre.
Sir Percy Blakeney / The Scarlet Pimpernel
An English aristocrat who hides his cunning mind and heroic courage behind the mask of a frivolous, foppish fool. Outwardly obsessed with fashion and witless banter, he is secretly the daring leader of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, rescuing innocents from the guillotine during the French Revolution. His disguise is both his shield and his burden, concealing his true heart even from his wife.
Lady Marguerite St. Just Blakeney
A former French actress of great beauty and intelligence, Marguerite is admired by London society but haunted by her past in Paris. Fiercely loyal to her brother Armand, she is drawn into Chauvelin’s schemes, unwittingly betraying her husband before discovering his secret. Torn between love, loyalty, and guilt, she ultimately redeems herself through courage and faith in Percy.
Citizen Chauvelin
A ruthless agent of the French Revolutionary government, Chauvelin is cunning, cold, and relentless. He despises Percy’s mockery of the Republic and is obsessed with unmasking the Scarlet Pimpernel. Once Marguerite’s admirer, his manipulation of her feelings reveals both his ruthlessness and his jealousy. For Chauvelin, capturing Percy is as much personal revenge as political duty.
Armand St. Just
Marguerite’s younger brother, an idealistic Frenchman who becomes entangled in the resistance against the Reign of Terror. Brave but sometimes reckless, his capture in Paris becomes the catalyst for Marguerite’s betrayal and Percy’s most dangerous mission. His innocence and loyalty remind both Percy and Marguerite of what is at stake.
Lord Antony Dewhurst
One of Percy’s closest friends and a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Cheerful, loyal, and quick-witted, Antony serves as Percy’s right hand in planning daring rescues. His bravery is matched by his absolute faith in Percy’s leadership.
The Prince of Wales (later George IV)
Future King of England, depicted here as a jovial, indulgent figure who adores Percy’s wit and absurdities. Though largely comic relief, his friendship with Percy shields the League from suspicion.
Supporting French Allies
The Priest: A clandestine ally who shelters fugitives in hidden cellars, embodying the moral resistance against tyranny.
The Tanner’s Widow: A working-class woman who risks everything to help Percy’s plans, symbolizing the courage of ordinary Parisians.
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