It really was a lot to take in. But Henry seemed to be taking it fairly well. She knew there would be confusion, after all, this was a time where such things were far less common, if at all. The world of her time was vastly different from that of this time, it only made sense that he'd be confused. Which was why history had to be taught. For people to see how they came to know the lives they now lived. Or so she assumed. Marguerite had never gone to school, she had learned everything on the street and through her interactions with people.
"There would be trials, not that they were ever fair. The anger and hatred clouded the minds of everyone so any trial was a formality... Evidence could be a simple denouncement, words spoken in anger at a man who had wronged a family member, or blackmailed out of a person. The source really did not matter... and the citizens would lie."
Marguerite knew that one far too well. Chauvelin had lied, and she had been blinded to think he'd tell her the truth because of their shared past. But he was so obsessed with the Revolution and blood lust, his power, that he would turn on her if she didn't do as he wanted. And oh, she would have done what he wanted if it meant saving her brother and husband, but it never got to that point for she had gone and fought him when he struck at Armand.
"In a way, yes. The blood and anger was not in England... only a man I knew from France came to ask my help in revealing the identity of a man known as the Scarlet Pimpernel as he had managed to trick me into working for him before. You see, this man, he was managing to outsmart the Committee and saved condemned aristocrats from the la guillotine's blade. Because of my new social standing he felt I could get that information as well as the identity of the men who worked with him... even though he had no power in England, he held power over me because my brother had been arrested in France. I did not learn the identity of the man at the time, but I did return to France on my own to save Armand before I was brought here."
It was strange to speak of her husband yet not, even now, it seemed strange to her that her husband, her Percy, was the man going back and forth, risking his life to save people he didn't even know. And he had died because of it. She didn't even know how long it had gone on, when he started, if it was because of St. Cyr or if he had known of that until the footbridge. Now she would never know.