Liberté

By Kassandra Alvarado

In the pursuit of liberty, equality and fraternity, one family struggles to survive as everything they once held dear is taken away. At the very heart of it all, one of their own is torn between the twin flames of revenge and desire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kassandra Alvarado
• Release date: Dec 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310100635

Book preview

Liberté

By

Kassandra Alvarado

Published by Kassandra Alvarado at Smashwords

Copyright 2016

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Cover Art designed by Author

Table of Contents

Part 1: Game of Attrition

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Part 2: There is no such Place

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Part 3: La Belle Dame Sans Merci

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Part 4: The Endless Gravestones

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty One

Chapter Forty Two

Chapter Forty Three

Part 5: World so Cold

Chapter Forty Four

Chapter Forty Five

Chapter Forty Six

Chapter Forty Seven

Chapter Forty Eight

Chapter Forty Nine

Chapter Fifty

Epilogue

Part I: Game of Attrition

Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, But, to be young was very heaven!

- William Wordsworth

June 1790 Chapter one

I was dreaming again, that same wonderful dream where we’re dancing beneath the crystal chandeliers. I see myself reflected in your eyes. Envy grows within me for that person snared in your gaze was closer to you than I could ever be. As the last vision faded into a glow of forgotten glory, I awakened alone in a dingy room on the upper floors of a tenement on the Rue Saintonge.  

Against my will, I recalled his promises to me. How he had sworn to save you from imprisonment. I was foolish to have believed his forked tongue. Those lies he wove that separated us...I mustn't doubt my ability to pay them back in kind.  

The sunlight had long since faded beyond the eastern horizon. The candle burned low, the pair of white silk stockings lied coiled, abandoned on my lap. My hands were stilled, my gaze blurry with sleep. Although, there wasn’t a fire in the grate, the room was hardly cold. The downstairs was letted out to a candle maker, warmth rose upward during the night when he stirred his great vats of tallow.  

Yesterday, I was told of the final set of rooms taken by a man from the countryside. A lawyer, no less, with ties to the recent uprising of the Third Estate. For a time, I watched from the window as the man arrived, a hired porter carrying a few cartons, portmanteau, and later light furnishings brought by others. The rooms were on the upper floor across the narrow u-shaped courtyard of stone. Down below in the center, a large bed of ferns grew comfortably in shade and silence.  

From my window, I could look straight across to see a single flame burning in the window. I rose and did so now, reclining against the aged casement. The night breeze washed over my face, sour, tainted. The city was a sea of decay, a cesspit of poverty and greed. I haven’t accepted its dirtiness, the sparkle gone from the river during daylight hours, nor the indigent masses that stalk the streets, lice-ridden, openly brazen with their calls for liberty. 

As my mind drifted to the distant spires of cathedrals, motion drew me back to the darkness of reality. The sash had opened across the way, the person appeared haggard, drawing green-tinted spectacles from his high forehead to dab at the lens with a soft cloth. He could not see me without them, this pale specter hovering beside diaphanous lace curtains.  

He squinted, seemed to mutter something to himself, then withdrew to retrieve a curling paper, nervously twisting the fraying edges. The paper appeared much ink-splotched, the product of a fevered mind seeking perfection. When he spoke, mimicking a soft cajole; I could not hear everything, but a few words said higher in note.  

Liberte...,morte...., 

There must’ve been some sound, maybe a cat’s cry or the scream of a Parisian beggar; for he recoiled and looked across searchingly in the only possible direction of the noise shattering his reverie. I was there in the same reverent attitude of night, clad in a shapeless shift of creamy white. He cannot see very well and likely only knew a figure stood there in partial shadow. He cannot see as sharply as I can, knowing the mouth that never rests during daylight, tics suddenly with a slight twitch, nor even as pale sea green eyes water with the intensity of discerning the shape of my form. 

A woman! He doubtlessly said to himself, withdrawing slightly inward. I imagined he shuddered with the feeling mine eyes gave, that selfsame sensation of being followed down a wooded path, down a city block where the anonymity of a crowd couldn’t hide one from relentless pursuit. I heard a quiet laugh; of course he has dismissed fear, but drew the curtain over the window.  

I lingered for a few moments longer in the coolness of night, patience ebbing with the current of the distant Seine through the ancient city. The time has come; I can feel it stirring in my soul: the long buried weight of memory burdened my steps as I turned from the window. Night was here; tomorrow everything would begin to fall into place.  

I slept little, dreaming nothing. 

Before the sun rose, I’ve left a feather tick mattress for the streets. Gold and silver have been hoarded, word is, a new currency was being printed up, imagined by the National Constituent Assembly. My uncle’s face showed concern even as he pressed a pouch of coins into my hand.  

Money goes nowhere now, he complained lowly, gray-streaked beard bristling. My mother’s brother, Hervé de Lescaut, calls me little Manon, in private. Manon is my mother’s name. Our tenements, mercantile store and brothel were signed under our joint names. One who might see our deeds would believe we were husband and wife. He is short and stout, bursting from his embroidered waistcoat, the carved stag buttons belie his taste in ostentation. We lost a girl the other day to a drunken man claiming patriotism. 

How terrible, I murmured, absently weighing the coins. Within, they might purchase a whole wardrobe of simple woolen dresses and soft slippers for closed bedroom use. But, the thought of lace trimmed bonnets, delicate paper fans and beautiful jewels was enough to make my head giddy with the possibilities.  

Manon..., 

Yes? 

I promised..., in the shady glen of the two buildings, Hervé lifted his gaze upward to the curtained window, its occupant seeking new followers in the many clubs dedicated to politics of a certain bent. I followed his gaze to the window. And he is here, God only knows the sight of which will never grant your heart peace. 

Hervé has moved hell and earth to bring a single person to 26 Rue Saintonge. He has kept his end of the bargain as I’ve done mine. He mopped his ruddy face with a square of linen embroidered in the corner by my own hand, suddenly disturbed. That man...he is unlike any other man that walks the streets of our city. Hervé’s look darkened, his voice dropped octaves lower. I have heard him speak in the Assembly; I have witnessed with my own eyes the considerable influence growing around him and his rabble. 

Careful, I whisper back, leaning close to his arm. Out of habit, his arm snaked around my waist leading all who glimpsed us to think we were intimately linked. Those are dangerous words, mon amour.  

Hervé said nothing, looking into my earnest face. I will say no more on this subject for I am going abroad in your father’s interests. Something in his expression told me I might never see him again. I’m on my own as I always was. Hervé leaned in, his whiskery mouth grazed my cheek. A light brush across the mouth twice and as he released my body, I lifted my gaze to that window high above us and smiled. 

I fancy oranges...the best...only the best that could serve the finest table of my father’s house.  

The crate of fruit comes the day paper assignat comes into my hands. In the privacy of my garret, sewing abandoned, I uncrated the box of bright orange globes nestled in straw, smelling deliciously of sunshine, warmth. I palmed one and then another, checking for bruises, dark spots of rot. They must be perfect. Perfect as the square of starched linen laid inside the new wicker basket. Perfect as the white dress draped over two chairs, the flounce of lace overlay was nearly finished. On my makeshift table of hat boxes, a precious bottle of violet water resided beside my revolver.  

Part of me couldn’t accept this day had finally come. Tomorrow. Without a moment of hesitation, I must wield the pistol the same as the knife that was plunged into my heart that day. My life - what is left of it, the part that you didn’t take with you...will be gone.  

Even if that saddened me, I chose to walk among the people, glimpsing the sights of the city I’d come to know from the past few months. The marketplace was dirty, crowded. Prices were haggled, women shouted to one another and bonnet rouge crowned the heads of swaggering men. I had gone there for seemingly the last time, to absorb the sights of the common folk.  

 Charlotte-! Charlotte! 

I turned in the masses at the voice I’d known since my life in a cradle. My heart leapt to my throat and a well of shame rose like a thorn in my heart. Manon de Leusomme wore the finery of the ancien regime, her powdered hair swayed and bobbed, new lines creased her angry face. My sister Hélène trailed after her, wan with wispy blonde curls dusting her pinched cheeks. 

Hélène smiled tiredly when our eyes met, confirming my deepest bond of recognizing blood. 

Mama...,  

One emotion defeated the other and I was stumbling forward, sobbing aloud into her arms. Mother was plump, scented heavily with roses and cinnamon. Deeper down, she smelt of hard travel, sweat, sadness and home. I loved her so much, my heart felt as though a knife had been plunged into it. Homesickness. Longing for the wild beauty of our mountainous home.  

Once, I had turned my back on my place of birth, now...the pain of losing it forever was unbearable. 

Please let us go, I let go first, catching a hold of Hélène’s little hand. She and mother were dressed in a fashion I once knew. They were easily identifiable as nobility and for that, I didn’t want to be seen with them.  

Come.  

They wanted to talk at once. 

I parted with some of the thin paper Assignat, hiring a carriage to shield us. The least thing of all I desired was for the market women to take offense with mother. I have witnessed their brutality...I...,

My glance strayed to Hélène’s shining face. I forced the dark thoughts away. The carriage bounced over ruts in the cobbled road. We swayed from side to side. I likened it in my mind to riding a horse with an uneven gait. 

I hardly know where to begin. 

Don’t...please. 

My eyes closed, behind my lids, a thousand different memories assaulted me. Silenced, Hélène drew away from me. Mother sat upright, her gaze boring into my form. We’ve traveled far without words when the carriage drew to a shuddering halt. The driver called out something in crude Occitan. None of us understand the words wholly, but were certain of the meaning. We had arrived. The time for answers was upon us. 

Silently, we disembarked within a large square stone courtyard. The hotel had been built around it in a central u-shape, rising three stories of multiple paned windows. It was lavish, grand, everything mother cherished. I followed them inside, passively glanced over by servants. Mother has taken rooms on the floor above. I felt a child again, one who has done something naughty and must be punished.  

Mother stood as I sat; Hélène remained a pale shadow, nervously plucking at the frills on her long sleeves. Four years, mother began, deciding she has let my guilt ferment long enough. Four long years and not a word. 

Once, I would’ve withered under the harshness of accusation, but I sat composed. She has had father, Hélène and Paul-Arnaud. She hasn’t been alone. Mother doesn’t know the meaning of solitude. I thought it needless. I say at first, hesitant. My pursuit has consumed less life than the rearing of a child. Yet, I felt as though it were my child. My unborn carried forever inside my heart.  

I didn’t want to be found. 

You ungrateful - 

Maman, please-! 

Our three voices rose against one another. There was no joy, no affection. Only recrimination. The past lay thickly between us. Small, freckled Hélène stepped between mother and I. Stop it both of you! Can’t you see, maman, that you are driving my sister into a corner? She has succeeded in tearing a small bit of lace from her cuff. The fabric curled and twisted through her clenching fingers as she turned to stare accusingly at me.  

And you are no better! Disappearing from us for all those years and never once stopping to think that maybe we were hurting from your absence? 

I can see they don’t understand. No one can. Unreasonably, my temper flared. You had everything in this life! Why can’t you see that my own life belongs to me? 

Hélène’s eyes so similar to father’s, swam with tears. Then, pray tell what have you done with this life?  

My mouth parted, but no sound came out. If I say it aloud, then all my sufferings will have been for naught. I want to suffer alone with the knowledge that the morrow might draw a quiet end. I have lived, Hélène...I have lived during a time when I thought I would die. I cannot say more, please don’t ask it of me. I paused to take in breath. My skin was painful to reside in, my mind a trap from which whispered a new beginning to the end of darkness. 

Try as I might, the sweet seductiveness of Vonderehle drew forth a greater longing for its rugged mountains, rustling grasses along rolling plains. I have been away for so long even the memory was faint. O’ why did I ever leave it? I despaired in silence. Our stone house upon the hill made so strong so that none could ever destroy its foundations.  

Let us return home, sister. Let us forget the past ever existed. 

I hesitated, my resolve bending. For me, the past always existed. Could I pretend it had all come to an end that day?  

We need you...let us be away from this place before the people’s uprising consumes us. 

Mother dried her tears, surreptitiously blowing her nose into a ragged linen handkerchief. I saw their finery as a veneer for pretense. A pretense that the world - our world, hadn’t changed.  

How is father...and our home...? I dreaded the answer deep in my heart, but I had to know the truth. If you should lie...I will know. 

Hélène threw a desperate, frightened glance to mother. He is...unwell. Our grain stores were raided after news of the Bastille’s fall last year. The peasants of Auzenne demanded the rights of the land traditionally held by our family, to be destroyed. I’m uncertain how, but he was able to maintain a majority of the land grants. 

I nodded slowly, seeing where it was all leading up to. But, last month, the National Constituent Assembly voted to erase the titles of nobility. Which would result in..., 

Our family’s ruination. Mother uttered in a soft moan, a new light suddenly coming into her eyes. Unless...you marry. 

I gaped at her, stunned at this new revelation. Marry? Marry who? 

Hélène avoided looking in my direction, someone suitable to our station. She said carefully.  

Mother lifted her chin haughtily, he is Austrian...tolerable in look. We have shown him your portrait and he has found you agreeable. He was chiefly concerned with your age, mother wore a familiar stubborn look I’d often seen her adopt with father. We have said you’re a ripe fifteen years of age.  

You lied? My voice rose higher. You and father lied to a man I’ve never even met?  

He has wealth and connections! Think of your family for once, rather than yourself! She clutched her chest as she spoke. Oh, my heart! I feel palpitations...Hélène, darling fetch me a cup of tea. 

My sister glared at me as if to say see what you’ve done?  She fled from the room in a flurry of skirts. I started to say something, then stopped, running my hand over my face, furious. I cannot believe you...you of all people! You should know that what you ask of me is impossible! I can’t marry anyone...I will not! Not even if it’s to save you.  

Mother started forward wildly, her bosom heaving. Oh, Saints above! You didn’t take vows! 

She worried I’d joined a religious order...that I was useless to them. The de Leusomme were anything, but apostates. Bitterness clenched my heart. I ran my nails down my jaw, my fist balling at the end. No. I swore on his grave that I would never ever marry another man. You should’ve known it was useless to sway me to your impossible schemes.  

Mother looked as though I’d struck her senseless. I gathered up my cloak quickly, flinging it over my shoulders. Our time has ended, mama. The time of privilege, of dancing until the sun rose...everything is gone. It’s time you accepted the loss.  

The door closed between us.  

I didn’t care that I was being horribly selfish. I’d lived for four years on my own, I’d made my own way...why couldn’t they? I walked at a furious pace, hurrying along the dark boulevards of Paris. Why did it fall to me to save them from their fate?  

I hadn’t said goodbye to Hélène; she would forgive me in time. She’d have to understand...they all did. I would never marry anyone. I promised that much once and didn’t intend to ever break that promise. Most of all, I thought I should rather die than break my word to you.  

As I neared the break of buildings on the Rue Saintonge, my gaze lifted upward to the window well lit on the upper storey. There were footsteps in the corridor, coming closer in hurried motion. A man burst out the door into the courtyard, you! Can you send for a doctor? My friend has collapsed! Hurry now! 

I had seen this man coming and going from the rooms above. They were close friends, this fellow and the other. I couldn’t see his face very well, but knew enough to approach. I’ll stay with your friend, you go fetch a doctor. I’m sure you know the way better than I do. 

The man hesitated then nodded deeply.  

I went past him to the door.  

Oh, it is the second door on the...,  

I can find my way, I said over my shoulder, not bothering to wait for a reply. Desmoulins was much too wrapped up in his own concerns to say anything else other than a brief thank you. On the turn of the stairs, I gathered my skirts to one side and went up the remaining flight to the second floor. Unsurprised, I saw the door had been left ajar. The light of a candle gave little illumination to the contents of the three rooms. Desmoulins was easily forgetful and not the least bit careful to whom he allowed within the inner apartments of his friend, the deputy from Arras.  

I entered quietly, closing the door gently. A desk was in the center of the room, bookshelves held law books, works of Rousseau and collected Roman masters. A winged back chair was in front of the fireplace with an ottoman beside it. I had been in here twice before to check over the quiet dereliction of the tenement with my uncle. That was before we had jointly purchased it. Now, I saw the few articles of furniture he had brought with him from Arras, consisted of mainly the desk and books.  

Casting my eye about restlessly, I came upon the glint of a knife beside a platter of sliced bread. The edge was sharp, jagged, with teeth made for carving crusty loaves. 

My hand enfolded around the handle, testing the heft. It fit my hand well with little room for error. Now was the moment - I circled around and stopped, hovering over the man lying slackly in the chair. His wig was askew, revealing Chestnut strands hanging around his ears. His skin was pallid, almost colorless. A green vein throbbed in his temple. He frowned in his sleep. 

I raised the knife higher – this was it. This was the culmination of my burden, the very thing I had dreamed of on dark nights. Redemption. My mind thus fixated, captured everything as it was, the settling of breath in his breast, the peculiar sickly sweet scent of the sickroom. Even when I had been on the cusp of moving on, I was still gripped by the kind of frenzied passion known only to the insane.

Maximilien. I called softly, determined that he should wake. Maximilien. Remember my voice. My face. See the face of your murderer. My lips stretched painfully into a twisted caricature of a smile. Then, the ponderous ticking that had seemed to stretch the moment into an eternity, ended. I was conscious of the silence as it wrapped around me, my eyes dropping to the silver watch fastened to his breast pocket.

I'd held that watch once in my hands, sealing a lock of hair inside it. One-handed, I reached for it, unhinging the snap against his stomach. The interior a skeleton work of minuscule gears and moving parts had stopped at nine o'clock, on the obverse, a thin plate of filmy glass held a secret. Slowly, I refastened the watch, my fingertips burning, then suddenly angry with myself, my hand wavered. 

You never forgot me, did you?

My arc swung through the air, caught by my free hand.  

I couldn’t do it.

Whether it was the watch with something secret inside or some other emotion I had long thought buried, I stepped to the side and wandered about the room, uncertain with my change in heart. As I did so, my eye was caught by a paper on the desk that had been half-finished, a speech of the people. I read it farther than five lines and understood a universal truth that I had never known before. Death and its finality would never be enough for this man. He would die for his ideals  - longed for the glory of death  - voluntarily sickened, I replaced the knife beside the tray.  

Killing him would be far too easy, far too quick an end to this life.  

I would nurse his body ....yes, the plan unfolded like the wings of a great bird. It took flight in my mind. I gazed down at the man oblivious to the world...then, and only then...,  

I laid him out with difficulty on the bed in the next room. Sat beside him on the narrow mattress. Shhh, I’ll watch over you. I’ll never let anyone harm you again. I'll wait for you to remember me as I remember you. Your life you say belongs to the revolution...but it belongs to me and only me. He did not stir under my promise. He appeared as one dead, lost to the world.  

Habitually tidy, I fixed anything out of order in the rooms, left briefly to retrieve my satchel of herbs. Water drawn from a pitcher, I poured into a cup steeping after warming to create a fragrant tea. I had removed stained stockings, discovering the ooze of an open ulcer had leaked through a thin covering of bandages. I cleaned the puckered flesh then applied the dripping bayberry compress.  

I worked long over the comatose body, dabbing fresh blood from his face. I had noted the pinkish stains splotching the pillow, assuming this was a regular occurrence. Perhaps something chronic? It was sobering how easily one such as he could be stricken down. When Desmoulins returned with an exhausted old man in tow; I had turned down the last candle and sat by the window in the main room. I couldn’t bear remaining for long in the same room with him. 

Ah, you’ve returned. I was summarily awakened by the creak of the door. Quickly, I rose and crossed the room, relighting the candles. In the sudden illumination, Desmoulins’ long face appeared haunted by shadows. He nodded to me in thanks, then directed the old man attired in rusty black to the opposite door. I followed, not wishing to be excluded. 

The doctor, whose name I never learned, tutted over my medicines, shook his head at the victim’s increasing color and recommended blood-letting to rid the afflicted of diseased blood. 

I shall cut him now. If you will remove this woman, please.  

I stepped forward before Desmoulins could speak. You will not cut him. Nor prescribe a hundred different toxins to cure one ill. 

I beg your pardon, citoyenne-? 

You will not, I concluded steely, for he will awaken in a few hours hence. He will awaken and require nourishment, not the kind that your lot could ever give. Now, leave. 

I ...I...well- his friend was clearly uncertain on how to proceed. Rather than rebuke my uncommon sharpness, he eventually led the doctor from the room in a profusion of apologies. Coins changed hands and the door was firmly shut. The doctor, I imagine, was likely recommending the marriage bed for a woman so close to hysteria such as myself.  

The other soon came back, hovering in the doorway. He wore a slight affected smile. You remind me of someone. Not as a friend or an admirer would seek to convalesce the patient. But, with the tender care of one bound by blood. I wonder your purpose?  

Apprehensive, I inclined my head slightly. Your meaning escapes me. I am a humble woman with a healer’s touch.  

That may be. But..., 

But, what?  

Possibly, I misread the situation before me. Pardon the analytical critique of a lawyer. You are most welcome and your assistance greatly appreciated. Desmoulins nodded firmly, courteous to the point of striking a thread of discomfiture in my breast. I’ll stay here; would you care to watch over him for the remainder of night? 

Ah...ah...yes. I think I would. But, I have a favor to ask, would you carry a message to the Hôtel de Castries, ask for Hélène. Trapped by the perceptiveness of his gaze, I was forced into that room. Into the very place where I didn’t want to return. Once the door had closed, I glanced toward the bed and glared with the passion of over a thousand empty nights. Words alone were trivial things.  

Then, because there was nothing left but endurance, I sank into the chair and waited for the morn to come. I must’ve fallen asleep. The day had exhausted my emotional reserves. I slept soundly without disturbance for some time. Then, the barrier of sleep thinned and I gradually became aware of my surroundings. Wan morning light streamed in through the curtained window. I muffled my exhalation of breath, casting a glance over the room.  

Someone - Desmoulins, had been in. He had covered me with the cloak. I gathered the crushed velvet in my arms, wishing I could curl up in its softness. Movement drew my eye across the room, the other sleeper stirred. I rose languidly, crossing the room to his side.  

His color had improved, though the infected lesions on the sides of his face would require further care. I had half a thought of preparing a bath of cleansing herbs, pausing to draw the covers over his shoulders. As I bent over him, he awakened with a sigh.  

Glazed green eyes lifted to my face, the expression in them taking me back to flickering candlelight, soft music, when those same eyes had looked up into mine. He held my hand so tightly then. Horror and pain seized my chest in a fearful grip, but I cannot look away.  

I can see my death in his face.  

*** 

I know you. 

The thought pierced his mind with surprising sharpness. 

Unbidden, it felt right, true.  

They stared into each other’s eyes. This stranger, who was not a stranger, and he, with the sensation of falling into a dream. She bent over him, her hands resting lightly on the covers. If he moved, the spell would break. If he spoke, he would forget where he had seen that face, those eyes.  

Frustratingly, memory proved elusive. 

She made a slight motion with her hand, likely unaware of doing so.  

She broke the spell.  

Agony twisted her mouth, her eyes were haunted pools. For a moment, he believed she would utter a scream. But, somehow her silence was a curse. A curiously horrible thing of naked emotion that was searing to gaze at. He couldn’t define any single emotion present in her face. 

Horror, fear, pain. She backed up, lifting her hands to her mouth.  

Stop. His voice roughened by drowse, shattered the silence. 

The woman turned and fled, casting aside the long green cloak that had been draped over her shoulders. Through the door, past the startled voice of Camille. He heard the slam of a door and pushed himself up. He had been divested of his daytime costume, dressed by someone in a long white ruffled nightshirt. He shuffled to the window, parting the curtain as Camille entered. 

What happened? Did you say something to her? 

Maxime wasn’t in any mood to answer, rather desired answers himself. Who was that woman? 

I don’t know, Camille tucked the book he was holding under his arm. I forgot to ask her name. His friend went and picked up the fallen cloak. Fine quality. 

Maxime kept watch, waiting for the woman to exit below. She turned not as he expected toward the opposite building, but went for the street, her skirts gathered to one side. She was commonly dressed. He was one for details. Perhaps she stole it? There was nothing for more to see out the window. The rooms across the way were dark and shuttered.  

Maxime ran his hand over the folds of smooth dark green. The feeling was indescribably lovely. He frowned. Likely, she stole it. 

No, I doubt it. Her dress was common as you say, but her manners were refined. Nobility that has fallen on hard times?  

He hummed at that, approving of his friend’s way of thinking. Maxime took the cloak, unable to resist curling his fingers in its softness. Camille wore an odd look on his long face. You seem better. I had called for a doctor, but that girl..., 

Maxime understood Camille’s confusion. He was perplexed himself. There was no solving the mysterious woman’s identity without her present for questioning. He tried to put the matter out of mind for a while by dressing, shaving, powdering his hair. Camille had procured breakfast and set it out on the table, moving a leather-bound kit beside the melted candlestick. It had been left open, exposing tiny glass bottles, rubber stoppered phials. He uncorked one curiously and inhaled the sharpness of tiny mint. Herbs?  

Apparently, she’s quite skilled. 

A thought occurred to Maxime and he went to the mirror, studying his skin intently. Yes, I must give her my compliments. His pillow wasn’t stained, nor was there any trace of blood on his nightclothes. His skin had retained a slight pallor, but in general the complexion had improved. Whoever she is.  

Upon closer inspection, Camille was able to detect the faded curvature of initials within the inside the case’s lid. M .C--de--L. She had me deliver a message for her last night. The address was the Hôtel de Castries. A very young girl answered the door, I suppose they could’ve been relatives.   

Within the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Maxime pronounced as though it didn’t matter. 

Nobility, then. Camille said unnecessarily, seeming anxious. The 7th arrondissement where the Hôtel was located among others were where fashionable people congregated; people to whom the majority of the populace rebelled against. Pleased with his appearance for the day, Maxime hardly noticed the hesitation in his friend’s admittance. I can put off a few things to-day. I’ll feel as though a walk would elevate the spirit. 

Camille knew him better than anyone else. Because he did, he worried for the determined glint in the other’s eyes. The girl was polite, she asked for nothing, but had given in return. When, she had exited so suddenly, her entire demeanor had been in a tumult of passion. Something, Camille didn’t know the nature of, had happened in that room. Something had occurred when Maximilien had awakened, whether words were exchanged or something else had passed between his friend and the girl ..., whatever it was, he felt it boded ill. 

It would be improper to visit without introductions. 

Did you give your name? 

Ah..., Camille fumbled for words. Yes, to the other. He didn’t add that he had felt that their mystery girl had known him. She had not seemed surprised in any way. She had even seemed to know where Maximilien’s rooms lay. But, because of her careful tending, he had good reason to doubt her intentions weren’t honorable. 

Then, let us go. 

*** 

I returned in the early morning hours. Bedraggled, my face streaked. Hélène went downstairs and retrieved a cup of tea from a porter. When she returned, she told me of the stranger who had asked for them below. He had introduced himself as Camille Desmoulins. His manners were rustic, his attire a firm black with the ruffles at his throat slightly crumpled. He had said he had a message from a young woman whose services he had temporarily engendered.  

She’d been civil to him within bounds, accepting the message he relayed. What more could she say other than watch, wait and worry? Mama had been long asleep and Hélène hadn’t thought to wake her. She would’ve raised Hell on earth as we both well knew.  

Where were you last night? 

I was taking care of someone. I sat on the light blue settee, striving to pretend all was well; Hélène watched as me as though I were a caged animal. We were once close. I missed that. She wouldn’t open up to me so easily and neither would I. Hélène left the room, disappointed and presently returned with a new dress that mama had commissioned from our seamstress. There were others packed in a steamer trunk meant for my use.  

I hardly glanced at the beautiful outer robe of pale pink tea roses. Have you ever imagined the end of your life? Seen the way it would all come to an end? Beautiful clothes seemed a waste when you would never see them.  

No, only once in a child’s fear. When papa placed me on his horse and rode in a gallop across our lands. 

I forced a small smile, rising to my feet. You’ve always been afraid of horses. I still remember that about you. I drifted from the room into hers, dressing without aid. I hadn’t touched the tea. Hélène lingered over the cold cup of fine porcelain, startled when someone rapped perfectly three times on the door.

Hélène hadn’t learned caution yet, unlocking the chain-bolt and drawing the panel inward. Who - ah, Monsieur Des- she had begun to smile, not noticing the smaller man with him. This other who had accompanied him, stepped forward expectantly. A pleasant smile wreathed Desmoulins’ face. He smiled where this other’s mastery of expression failed him.  

I was aware of this address being in relation to another young woman - then, he stopped speaking, seeing through her. The corner of his thin mouth twitched uncontrollably. Hélène couldn’t speak, find words to dissuade him from whatever errand had drawn him here. He was a horrid man despite his attempt at attractiveness by fine clothing. His hair was neatly powdered, the buckles on his waistcoat and shoes polished to a metallic glint.  

He stood so precise, so exacting in bearing.  

But, I could sense his distraction.  

Men who proclaim greatness, pretend infallibility.  

Please come in for a moment. She said helplessly. I’d stepped from the other room, standing in the light of the large windows, running my hands through my tangle of loose curls. They fell to my shoulders turned almost golden in the light. The gown sheathed my body in elegance, refinement. The cut was deeply low, breasts plump, flushed with a slight pink.  

T-This is my sister, Charlotte. 

She ceased to exist for one man. Desmoulins sent her an apologetic smile, trying to engage her in nervous conversation. We came to thank your sister for her attentiveness last night. She was very kindly to my friend. 

Charlotte, said the other wonderingly. He pronounced my name in a breath of reverence. I glanced at them, a flash of emotion replaced by composure. It is very peculiar to find an admirer of myself within a lavish hotel.  

I couldn’t profess to be one, I answered carefully, continuing to the window.  

His smile faltered; he had not been expecting an affront to his dreams of regard. Of course.  

I watched him sizing up the lofty room with its elegant wainscoting, pale ivory and blue colors. Desmoulins tried to return the subject to a leather case he carried, the one I’d left behind.Your sister’s. Along with our gratitude, she had forgotten a few items. We came personally to return them. 

Ah, Hélène took the heavy case from him. He seemed to know the other very well and wished to avoid a scene of which might embarrass us.  

I find it perplexing then, that you should sacrifice an evening of play - 

I cared - 

Maxim-! 

They spoke simultaneously. 

Only the orator’s voice rose above them. -to tend to a humble deputy. The incongruity of his speech and clothing made a ridiculous sight. I leaned against the window, with the blaze of sunlight bathing my face. I did it because I couldn’t bear to watch someone suffering. I would care for a wounded animal the same way. Now, does that answer your question? 

Then, to my surprise; he started to laugh, a rough, hateful sound. 

My dear Mademoiselle! Surely, you jest! When it is people of your station in life that has caused the heart to rot from France. I see you would deny it as most would. But, do you ever hear the cries of the hungry child in its mother’s arms? Do you ever feel the sorrow of a man who cannot place food before his starving family?  

His friend looked upon him in exasperation. I can easily imagine he has heard these selfsame words hundreds of times. Spoken at a multitude of tables, groaning with food. I could feel the unfairness of the moment clouding my vision. My fingers curled desperately, clawing into the whitewashed sill, forcing my mind away from an action I would sooner regret.  

He reveled in my seething silence. You haven’t, Mademoiselle, and that is where your sympathies are affectations of true human emotion. 

Silence reigned; Hélène looked weak in body hearing ourselves so roundly insulted. This man cannot know us. He cannot pretend to know our dear, gentle papa with all of his kindnesses toward the villagers of Auzenne. Desmoulins went and grasped the other’s arm. That is enough, Maximilien. You’ve proved your point, now let us be off. Being the taller man, he pulled, but the other stood stolidly staring after my slightly bent back. I wouldn’t look him straight in the face.  

Come. Desmoulins hissed, throwing us another remorseful look. 

When they had gone, Hélène stamped her foot, uttering those things I’d heard papa use flagrantly behind closed doors, long ago. That dirty rotten scoundrel! How dare he presume to know us?! 

I hadn’t moved from my place by the window. I did so now with a faint smile playing on my lips. He says things he does not believe in. He wants to believe, but cannot prove his words have any truth to them. 

How do you mean? 

He wanted to see if he could stand to look me in the eye, but I wouldn’t give him the pleasure. He can only bear to look into a liar’s face. I have no doubt that I’ll see him again...whether by chance or pretended chance. He may even return here. 

She stared at me in amazement, doubtless wondering how I could be so certain. Why? 

He kept my cloak. It was under his arm. When he came toward me, he meant to present it. For some reason or another, he decided to keep it. 

That’s preposterous! Hélène scoffed and made sure the door was locked. He despises the Second Estate and all it stands for. 

I looked after her with the strangest expression on my face.  

He’ll be back.  

July 1790 Chapter Two

Hélène doesn’t understand him the way I do. She doesn’t believe me when I say he will come again. We will know each other, we will exchange more than a few words. He and I will be confidantes, closer than the friend by his side. He will tell me things that won’t ever reach his friend once they are driven apart. I knew all this from looking into his eyes.  

Hélène didn’t share my vision, she didn’t understand. 

Maman is terribly disappointed with you. 

I know. 

She studied me silently for a moment, then smiled sadly, shaking her head. You’ve always been like this. In four years, you’ve never changed.  

But, I have, no one sees it. 

Deep down, I wondered if we are ensnared by fate?  

Through Hervé’s manipulations, he was brought to Rue Saintonge. I never thought that through circumstances beyond me could we have come face to face. How could it be that through all that time, he never once noticed me watching him? Well, that could’ve been easily explained by more absent-minded bouts I’d witnessed.  

I have met with him six times. He is discreet, pretending it commonplace. I’m certain he was having me followed. I’ve practiced the art of blending into the crowd, learned the routes and byways of Paris, thereby choosing the moment I allowed our paths to cross. He rode in a carriage drawn by a fine set of horses. Deliberately, I slowed to let him hail me. 

We are headed the same way? 

30 Rue Saintonge for my part. I cannot say for yourself. 

Get in, and he made the motions for the driver to stop.  

I prefer walking.  

Huh, I would’ve assumed you always take a carriage. 

It would surprise you to learn I haven’t ridden in one in quite a while. If I can carry the distance on my own two feet then I will. For farther distances, a horse suits me just fine. I looked at him pointedly. He leaned against the window, disregarding the occasional hails by people passing us by.  

Do you sometimes ride a horse down to the Assembly? 

He made an unpleasant face, no...I don’t have the pleasure of riding...ah, often.  

You don’t know at all, I scoffed, recognizing a lie. I had never seen him mount a horse, nor touch one. Being slight, I could guess perhaps he feared horses.  

His mouth pursed and I thought he would stop speaking altogether, pulling the shutter down between us. But, I was wrong.  

So you can tell, can you? No, I’ve never fully ridden a horse nor desire to. Do you ride? 

Oh, yes...I love it. Just the feel of mounting an animal...becoming one with it. That is a true pleasure that most take for granted.  

You had horses in the past...? 

Many of them, but not anymore. 

Our conversation lapsed. I didn’t want to speak more of horses, it would make the ache greater. Hélène told me that father has ceased breeding them. Since the troubles, he’d lost over half his stables to the peasantry stealing them. The law wouldn’t protect father’s rights as a seigneur. Not with men such as the one who rode in the carriage bumping along the ruts in the muddy road. 

It was times like this that I desired to sink into despair. 

Are you alright? He leaned suddenly out the window, studying my face with concern.  

I hesitated before answering, wondering how he had able to discern it? Something else came to me then, something that could be a cause for future concern. Was I unable to hide my emotions from him? Could he read me that well? No. It’s nothing, please don’t trouble yourself on my account. I smoothed my expression, smothering my feelings deep inside. 

He studied my expression critically, if you wish to lie, at least do so convincingly. Driver, stop!  

No, please don’t -  I stood back as the carriage shuddered to a halt. He opened the door and settled back. Come along, it’s a long way. 

I climbed in silently. 

The carriage started on its way again. 

Who taught you how to ride? A tutor? 

No, my father. He is an accomplished horseman. My answers were clipped, brusque. I didn’t want to discuss my father with this man. The less he knew, the better for us all. Over time, it seemed he had forgotten the one case he had lost from the defense’s standpoint.  

I became aware of his glances to me. What is it? 

Have I offended you? 

If you had then you would be completely unaware of it. 

He propped his chin up with his hand, impertinent girl, what kind of answer is that? 

I looked out the window; children were pointing and hollering at the carriage. They knew he was inside. So the poison has spread to the smallest of French citizens. Idly, I closed the shutter. It means that as for delicacy of feeling, you are deficient in understanding the finer points of the human heart.  

He called the carriage to a halt, red-faced, furious.  

I studiously kept my gaze on the immaculate blue satin of the seating in front of me.  

Neither of us spoke; gradually, I got to my feet and climbed out. The carriage rolled on, splashing me afresh with mud. I continued on my way, taking several smaller warren-like streets to the longer boulevard of my own street. I saw immediately I’d arrived ahead of the carriage.  

They would likely have stopped several times to gain accolades from the citizenry in order to soothe his wounded ego. No matter. It would be easy to tell within the space of our next encounter if my words had a lasting effect...or if he could simply forgive,