Babette looked and saw him draw a knife and lash out at the beast. The beast grunted and knocked the weapon away.
Babette forced herself up on her elbows, every movement making her body shudder. Perhaps if she ran, she could get far enough away before the beast had finished killing and consuming Korbinian. Certainly that was what he hoped. But Babette would be damned if she left the man she loved to be eaten while she fled like a coward.
Claire de Mirabeau might do such a thing, but not a Varanus.
The beast drew back its paw and slashed Korbinian across the chest. Its claws, like knives, tore through the layers of Korbinian’s coat, waistcoat, and shirt with ease. Korbinian cried out in pain and stumbled. A moment later he fell in a heap on the ground.
“No!” Babette shouted. She reached out toward her beloved as he collapsed.
The beast turned toward her and looked at her curiously. The expression in its eyes was both intense and thoughtful, and it made her shiver. A beast in want of reason should not have known such understanding.
The beast raised its claws, still dripping with Korbinian’s blood, and licked them clean with its thick tongue. The sight made Babette cry out again, and she struggled to rise. She could not find the breath to move, and her body rebelled. She fell backward into the dirt once more. The beast chuffed at her. It sounded like a laugh.
Babette watched as Korbinian began to crawl toward his knife. It was a futile effort, but the refusal to succumb made Babette giddy for a moment.
She forced herself to her feet, aching with every movement. The beast had turned away from her and now loomed over Korbinian, watching him as if amused by his futile attempt to escape.
Babette looked about for a weapon. The pistol was empty—not that it had done any good—and the beast was between her and the knife. Her eyes fell upon the uprooted sapling that the beast had torn from the ground.
It was an unlikely chance, but it was the only one that Babette could see.
She stumbled over to the sapling and picked it up. The young tree was heavy and unwieldy, but under the heat of the moment, she found that she lifted it with ease. Babette spun around and saw the beast hunched over Korbinian, pinning his arms down with its massive forepaws.
She hefted the sapling and ran for the beast. If the pistol’s bullets and the knife had been unable to stop it, a blow to the body with a glorified cudgel would be no better.
Find someplace vulnerable… Babette thought.
The eyes.
Babette raised the sapling into the air as best she could and brought it down on the beast’s head with all her might. She had been aiming for the bridge of the beast’s snout, but instead she connected with the top of its brow. Her makeshift club struck and bounced off, making her stumble back a pace.
But it had had an effect. The force of the blow made the beast lurch, though it showed no sign of pain. Instead, it looked up, having suddenly forgotten Korbinian, and patted the top of its head with one massive forepaw. Slowly it turned toward Babette and snarled at her.
Babette swung the sapling again and struck the beast full in the face with its roots. The beast let out a snarl of pain and jerked away, lashing out at the sapling with its claws. Babette was thrown off balance and fell to her knees, but the beast withdrew a few paces as it rubbed its eyes with the heel of its forepaw.
Hand, Babette realized. The beast’s forepaw was like a hand, fingers and all. Good God, what sort of creature was this?
She picked herself up again and raised the sapling. With a roar that rose from her toes and into her belly, she charged at the beast and swung again, throwing all her weight into the blow.
The beast reached out with one hand and snatched the sapling in midair. With a single, easy movement, it tore the weapon from Babette’s grasp and flung it away. Babette fell onto her side and threw up an arm to shield herself, expecting the beast’s next blow to be on her.
When nothing came, she opened her eyes and saw the beast looming over her, watching her. It sniffed at her and grunted. For a moment it seemed to shake its head.
What can be the meaning of this? Babette thought. Why had it not killed her?
The beast chuffed. One massive hand took her by the shoulder and shoved her aside. Babette rose again as quickly as she fell. Grabbing the beast by the arm, she pulled herself ahead of it and flung herself upon Korbinian. The beast drew up short and snorted angrily at her. It reached for her again, but she pulled away from it, all the while keeping herself between it and Korbinian.
The barking of dogs rose in the distance. The beast raised its nose and sniffed the air. Grunting, it looked into Babette’s eyes. Babette stared back and saw something there she never thought an animal could know: frustration.
The beast turned and thundered back into the brush.
Babette lay there, gasping for breath for a few moments. She could scarcely comprehend what had just happened, what she had just seen.
What the deuce…?
Another thought came to her:
Korbinian!
Babette turned and looked down at Korbinian. His eyes were closed, but he was breathing. Babette touched his cheek, and his eyelids fluttered open.
“Babette…” he murmured.
“Hush,” Babette said.
She pulled the tattered edges of Korbinian’s clothing away from his bloody chest. She gasped at the sight of the wounds left by the beast’s claws. Korbinian’s pale skin was awash with blood, the old mass drying and dark amid the flowing crimson.
“Liebchen…” Korbinian said, reaching out for her.
Babette pushed his hand away impatiently.
“Be still, my love!” she said. “For God’s sake, be still.”
What could she do? The claws had not cut deep—Korbinian’s ribs were still intact—but the blood was endless. She would have to staunch the flow of it. Only then could she even begin to think about moving him. That would be a dreadful risk, but she could not leave him there, not in his state.
But what to use for bandages? All their clothes were covered in dirt, and dirt seemed the last thing that should be going inside one’s body.
But of course, she realized, not all of their clothing had been soiled during the fight.
Babette grabbed Korbinian’s knife from where it had fallen and wiped it off on the cleanest part of her sleeve. She hiked up her skirt and began cutting her petticoats into pieces as quickly as she could manage. For the first time in her life, she had found a practical use for the damnable things.
She packed a bunch of fabric pieces together into a mass and placed it against Korbinian’s chest. She pushed on it as hard as she could, just as it had been described to her during their many lessons on medicine. To think that now she the student had to perform on her teacher.
Or that his life depended on how well she had learned.
Babette bit her lip, but the grim realization only hardened her resolve. Korbinian would not die because of her.
The sound of dogs was louder now. Babette turned toward it and saw a pair of hounds, straining at their leashes, leading a figure in rough clothing through the trees.
“Gustave!” Babette shouted, recognizing the figure as her grandfather’s game warden.
“Mademoiselle?” Gustave said. He hurried to her and knelt, looking at Korbinian in shock. “What has happened? I heard a shot and thought it was poachers.”
“There is no time!” Babette said. “Lift his chest for me.”
Gustave set his shotgun down and looped the dogs’ leads around a branch. The animals were incensed, and they snarled and barked in the direction that the beast had fled.
Without a word, Gustave took Korbinian by the shoulders and raised his upper body. Babette cut longer strips of cloth from what remained of her petticoats and wrapped them around Korbinian’s chest, binding the wound tightly. They would not be good for long, but at least the makeshift bandages would last until he could be returned to the house.
“Gustave,” B
abette said, “you must return to the house. Tell them that there has been an animal attack. Fetch men, fetch a cart, and have them send for a doctor at once!”
“But Mademoiselle, I cannot leave you—” Gustave began.
“And I cannot leave him!” Babette snapped. “The dogs will protect me. Give me your shotgun if you think they are not enough.”
Gustave picked up the shotgun and hesitated. Babette snatched it from him and set it on her lap.
“Now go!” she shouted.
Gustave bowed his head, stood, and raced off in the direction of the house.
Babette’s head swam from the excitement. In the sudden calm, she felt herself falling into a swoon, and she knelt with her head down for a moment to steady herself.
“Babette, my love?” she heard Korbinian ask weakly.
She turned to him and looked into his eyes, smiling bravely. She could not lose him. It would be the death of her, she knew that now.
Touching his cheek, she said, “Be strong, my dearest. You must be strong. Help is coming. But you must keep your eyes open.”
Korbinian took her hand and pressed it to his lips.
“I could never look away from you, liebchen,” he said softly. “So long as you are here, I will never close my eyes.”
There was such pain and such determination in his voice that Babette felt tears wet her eyes.
“Liebchen,” Korbinian said, gasping for breath, “my love for you is such that I cannot describe it. I could die now content in knowing that you are safe.”
“You will not die!” Babette cried. “I forbid it!”
Korbinian smiled at her and took her hand. He kissed it gently and said, “Mademoiselle Babette Varanus, I have but one thing to ask of you.”
“What?” Babette asked.
Why had Korbinian suddenly used her proper name for the first time in months?
“If I live,” Korbinian said, struggling with his words, “I wish that you would give to me the greatest happiness that a man can ever know.”
He looked into her eyes and clutched her hand tightly.
“Babette, my darling, will you consent to be my wife?”
Babette’s breath caught in her throat. Such a thing had always been understood between them, but it was an unspoken understanding. Now, to hear the question asked in full.…
She wept freely with joy and kissed him. She could hardly speak, but there was only one word she needed to say—indeed, only one word she could say.
“Yes!”
Chapter Eight
William found James in the parlor, playing a sentimental tune on the pianoforte. He watched his son in silence from the doorway, listening to the music as James, enraptured by his work, failed even to notice his approach, much less stop playing.
I should despise him, William thought. And it was true. James was so weak, so fragile, so sensitive.
So unforgivably human.
That alone was crime enough in the eyes of most Scions on the Continent, which was compounded further by his softness of spirit, his lack of will, and his foolishness. It was a miracle that he had fathered Babette, especially in light of his late wife who had been worse even than he.
But even so, William could only look upon his son with pity, perhaps even with love. James was like a pup that could not grow up.
“James,” William said, stepping into the parlor and approaching the pianoforte, “I would like to speak to you.”
James looked up in surprise and said, “Of course, Father, what troubles you?”
William sat in a nearby chair and folded his hands.
“James,” he said, “we must speak seriously about Babette.”
“What about Babette?” James asked, paling slightly. “Has there been talk?”
Bloody fool, William thought, fussing over what the neighbors think of us.
“Of course not, James. Do you not recall? She was a perfect young lady in Paris. Indeed, she and the Baron von Fuchsburg were the pinnacle of elegance and propriety.”
“Yes, that is true,” James said, smiling. “Her mother would have been so very proud.…”
William cleared his throat and said, “Of course she would have been. But to the matter at hand. We cannot deny that there is a great affection forming between Babette and von Fuchsburg.”
Evidently James could deny it, for he raised a finger in protest.
“Now just a moment—” he began.
“James,” William said, interrupting his son, “denying the fact will not change it. Let us acknowledge the truth of the matter.”
James hesitated and finally nodded.
“Very well, I will acknowledge that Babette has formed an infatuation with the Baron. But what of it?”
“It is not infatuation, James,” William said. “It is love. Of that I am certain.”
“Love?” James demanded. “Father, how can you say such a thing?”
“How can you deny it?” William asked. “One needs merely to watch them for an hour to see the way that they look at one another, speak to one another, even sit in silence with one another. It is love, James. And I feel quite certain that should we deny them, the result will be disastrous.”
“You exaggerate, Father.”
“I do not,” William said. “And James, you cannot deny it.”
James shifted uncomfortably and looked toward the windows.
“Why do you come to me about this?” he asked.
“Because, James,” William said, “I suspect that one day very soon, young Korbinian will ask for Babette’s hand in marriage. And you and I will give the union our blessing.”
“I will do no such thing!” James cried. “What a horrible notion!”
“To grant your daughter leave to marry the man she loves?”
“He’s a German! People will talk!”
“Better German than English, I suspect,” William said with a chuckle. “And I do not doubt that his refined lineage will outweigh any concerns regarding his lack of French blood.”
“It’s precisely his lineage that will be discussed! There are such rumors about the von Fuchsburgs.”
“I would still rather people talk about Babette marrying a von Fuchsburg than about her not being married at all.”
“Surely it will not come to that,” James said. “In time—”
“Who else is there that she will marry?” William asked sternly.
James was a weak creature. With enough pressure he would succumb. It was just a matter of force and reason.
“Well, Alfonse des Louveteaux—”
“She despises him,” William said. “And he holds no love for her either.”
“Nonsense,” James said. “Why, Louis—”
“Alfonse loves only his cousin, Claire, whatever his father might say about it. Do not be deceived, James. Louis des Louveteaux has only his own interest at heart: not his son’s, not ours, and certainly not Babette’s. I can see quite plainly now that the only man she is likely to be happy with is the Baron von Fuchsburg. And her happiness is sufficient for me. You do want her to be happy, don’t you?”
James’s face took on a pained and indecisive expression at the suggestion. William smiled inwardly. He had chosen the correct piece of leverage. Whatever his faults, James truly did love his daughter.
“Of course, Father, but are you certain that von Fuchsburg will make her happy?”
“He already does,” William said.
There was a commotion in the hall, and William stood and turned toward it, ready to admonish whichever of the servants had seen fit to disturb them. He saw the footman Vatel in the doorway. The man’s face was ashen.
“Vatel, what is it?” William demanded.
“It is Mademoiselle Varanus, sir,” Vatel said. “And the Baron von Fuchsburg.”
“What of them?”
“There has been an attack, sir.”
“Good God!” James cried, rising from his seat. “Babette!”
William waved his son into si
lence and asked, “What happened? Who is hurt?”
“An animal of some sort attacked them in the forest,” Vatel said. “Only the Baron was injured, but Mademoiselle Varanus refused to leave his side.”
James gasped and cried, “She’s not still out there, is she?”
“She is, Monsieur,” Vatel said. “Gustave, who found them, said that she sent him back to bring help and a cart.”
“And a doctor,” William said. “Make it so, Vatel. Now!”
“It will be done, sir.”
“Did Gustave say what kind of animal attacked them?” William asked.
Vatel thought for a moment before replying, “You may wish to ask him yourself, sir, but I believe he said ‘a bear.’ He only caught a fleeting glance.”
William felt the blood rising in him. An attack in the woods? Along the border of Louis des Louveteaux’s property? By a bear? And only Korbinian was injured?
“Vatel, have the carriage sent for Doctor Artois at once,” William said. “And tell the groom to saddle my horse.”
* * * *
William did not wait to be shown into the des Louveteaux house. As soon as the footman had opened the door for him, he shoved the man to one side and stormed into the opulent foyer. He took a moment to look around for any sign of the family and another moment to frown disdainfully at the gaudy surroundings. The des Louveteaux had never recovered from the shock of the Revolution, and even now they surrounded themselves with the worst aesthetic crimes of the Ancien Régime.
“Monsieur, I must insist—” the footman began.
William grabbed him by the collar and forced him to his knees.
“Where is Louis?” he demanded.
“I…I…” the footman stammered.
“Where?”
“William?” Louis’s voice came from the direction of the upstairs landing.
William looked up and saw Louis descending the stairs. The man’s stance was one of caution, his expression innocent, but the look in his eyes said everything.
He knows. As I suspected.
“William, what is the meaning of this?” Louis asked, reaching the ground floor. “You are, of course, always welcome in my home, but to come unannounced? And to manhandle my servants? What madness—”
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