by Jamie Carie
Opening the box he felt through the contents like a blind man, looking straight ahead in the dark, noticing how his sense of touch was becoming more alive as he turned the objects over and over in his hands. Then, there it was. A long candle that he’d used to light gunpowder for some long-ago boyish prank he could barely remember. He smiled as his fingers wrapped around the flint and tinder.
He stuck the candle firmly between his clasped thighs but found he was out of practice. It took several tries to get the thing to light. Once it did, he felt a small measure of success. He studied the welcome flame, as bright and cheery as Scarlett’s lips—
No! He pushed her name from his mind. Enemies of circumstance—that’s all they were now.
Holding the lit candle high, Christophé wandered through every room in the chateau. He searched every nook and cranny, every secret place he could remember. He found little—an old blanket to cover himself, a broken chair that he might be able to fix, and half-stale loaf of bread. He sank down on the floor and ate it until it was gone. Finally, he lay on the floor, pulled the thin blanket to his chin, used his curled arm beneath his head for a pillow, and fell into a deep sleep.
For the first time in a long time, he slept the sleep of the dead in the room where he had grown up.
THE WOMEN TOOK a collective breath and stared at one another.
Stacia had her hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes wide. “Oh, Scarlett. You were so brave and . . . and well spoken. I was terrified. He was the most revolting little man I’ve ever seen.”
Scarlett shushed her with a strong look and a little shake of her head.
“Well,” their mother remarked, ever innocent of the dangers around her. “I can’t say that I am encouraged. It seems we’ve landed in a hornet’s nest.” She took a sip of her tea and stared across the room.
A girl came in to clear away the dishes, stopping further discussion. Scarlett watched the slight girl thinking she must be sixteen or seventeen years old. Her blonde hair came to her shoulders, but her face looked somehow familiar.
The girl kept her head down, seeming shy.
“What is your name, dear?” Scarlett asked as she passed her plate into the girl’s hands.
She glanced up into Scarlett’s eyes, her face frozen and terrified.
Scarlett gave her a kind smile. “Don’t be afraid. I am no one to fear.”
But the girl only stared, wide-eyed, for a moment and then bolted from the room.
Chapter Fifteen
Find Robespierre.
Find Robespierre.
Find the beginning of the horror and end it. It was the only way to go on.
Christophé woke to the chanting demand, got up and limped to the box where his childhood items lay scattered across the floor. He reached in, took up the knife that he’d hidden away because he knew its glistening sharpness would cause his brothers to take it, his mother to forbid it, and his father . . . well, he didn’t know what his father would have done should he discover it. He had never really known his father very well at all.
Christophé studied the knife in the gleam of dawn’s light. He turned it this way and that, the deadly sharpness stirring something tight and strong in his chest. He imagined thrusting it into Robespierre’s chest, hearing the ribs crack. He closed his eyes and imagined the man’s last breath . . . then fought the wave of nausea at the images in his mind.
The prayer lifted to his consciousness. “Thy will be done.” Then Scripture, the one that assured “‘vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord.”
Christophé gritted his teeth against the truths he’d embraced for so long. Crushed the words pushing into his mind. Vengeance. It was what Robespierre deserved. He couldn’t wait until the judgment of God.
Taking up his cloak he swung it around his thin frame and quit the room with more energy than his body should have. He’d lost weight on the journey from Carcassonne, so much so that he had to tie a slender rope around his breeches to keep them up. Not eating to finish his experiments had given way to not eating for the simple reason of lack of funds. He had turned from Count’s son to roadside beggar in the space of a few years.
Once out onto the streets of Paris he kept his head down, his boots clipping across the stones, the leg feeling better after a good night’s rest. The breeze was gentle as he looked out at the quarter where he grew up. He heard the familiar sounds—birds chirping in the distance, the wheels of a carriage over the cobbled street, people passing by . . . but now he sensed an underlying fear. Heard the hushed tones of those afraid.
Anger rose up to his chest. What had the Révolution done to this city? They were all enemies now, or possible enemies. His eyes narrowed as he looked up, catching the eye of a lady in an expensive dress. She shied away, afraid.
He was glad.
A dark laugh escaped him. He reveled in the power of his mission. He balanced on an arc of time. Something was about to happen, something that would change the course of history.
Something he would cause.
It was a heady feeling.
His steps quickened and it wasn’t long before he stood in front of the Duplays’ house, where Robespierre lodged. All Christophé needed was a quiet moment. A darkly lit hall. Robespierre’s private sitting room. Just a few stolen minutes.
One perfect moment.
He knocked at the front door. A young woman answered it.
She took in the red cap Christophé wore and smiled. “Yes, citizen? May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Maximilien Robespierre. I have a message for him.”
The woman shook her head. “I am afraid he is not to be disturbed just now. Might I give him the message?”
“No.” Christophé tried to ignore the impatience burning through him. “It is a verbal message and I must give it to him personally. Do you know when I might come back and find him available?”
The woman glanced around the steps and surrounding area outside the door. In a low voice she said, “He usually leaves for the Jacobin Club at 8:55. You might walk with him?” She pointed down the street toward the club’s building.
Christophé pulled out his pocket watch and looked at the time. It was already 8:35. He nodded toward the woman. “Merci. I will wait here.”
The woman backed away, shutting the door behind her. Christophé stood in the tiny alcove and considered his options. He did not want to confront Robespierre in the middle of the street, where he would be seen. It had to be somewhere private. With a quick decision he pressed his thin frame against the wall next to the door and hid behind a large plant.
The irony of it struck him. Robespierre had waited in the St. Laurent hall for hours for Émilie and him to come out of hiding. Now he would be the hunter.
A noise sent the blood rushing through his veins. He had a cloth ready in one hand, soaked with a chemical that would render the man senseless should he need it, and the knife ready in the other.
Everything in him stopped. Stopped thinking. Stopped listening to the insistent voice that said, “Don’t do this!”
The chatter of voices sounded from inside the house and then the door opened. Would Robespierre be alone?
The man came out the door, accompanied by four women. Christophé’s heart felt caught in his throat. No. It wasn’t possible! He was hallucinating. Hunger had driven him mad . . .
And yet, she was there. Scarlett. It was her rounded form coming down the stairs.
He pushed back into the wall, shock upon shock as he recognized Suzanne and Stacia, followed by what must be a servant girl—
Wait. The girl. Those golden braids tight against her scalp.
His eyes narrowed, and he took in the slim shoulders. He started shaking as he realized those shoulders still had the same taut boniness he had grasped against his chest for hours in their hiding place in the family chateau . . .
Turn around! His heartbeat was fast in his chest and making too much noise. It couldn’t be! He had watched Émilie mount the steps to the guil
lotine. Émilie would never be with Robespierre.
He shook uncontrollably now, making a sound that reverberated around him. He pressed further into the wall. Please . . . please . . . let none of them hear me.
Just as he thought it, Scarlett jerked back and turned. Her eyes met his and she inhaled.
Christophé shook his head slowly back and forth, pleading. Stacia grasped her sister’s arm. “Scarlett, what is it? The babe?”
Scarlett turned quickly back around and yelped, leaning over her stomach. It had the desired effect of immediately capturing her younger sister’s attention, of rushing them down the steps. “Just a small pain. I’m sorry to have frightened you.”
They followed her. They did not look behind.
Christophé slid to the ground. His hand grasped at the stones, needing the anchor.
He’d seen her at the guillotine. He witnessed her familiar blue dress and erect carriage mount the stairs. He watched as they locked her body into place. He heard her thin cry. Now it appeared that Robespierre had the power to further torture him with a serving girl that looked like his sister.
Just one more reason to make sure the man never drew another breath . . .
“Émilie . . .” Her name gasped out. He clutched his chest, feeling his heart ready to burst within the cage of his ribs. “I miss you.”
SCARLETT’S SUDDEN ANIMATION held them all captive as they walked to the market. She chatted inanely about the city and all the places there were to visit.
Robespierre took little notice. He seemed deep in thought and troubled. At a cross street, he bid the women good-bye and turned toward the offices where the Convention held their meetings, but not before he had passed coins into Scarlett’s hand. “Buy whatever you need. I will see you at dinner.”
Robespierre had given the serving girl a list of items that he wanted, which she handed to Scarlett without complaint. She was such a quiet girl, Scarlett thought as she gazed at the top of her mop cap. And had such responsibility in Robespierre’s household. It was puzzling.
“Will you tell us your name, dear?” Scarlett touched her shoulder, covered by the light gray servant’s dress.
The girl looked up, met Scarlett’s eyes with innocent blinking, but didn’t speak.
Scarlett’s paused, studied the girl’s face. It came to her in a rush. In the light of day, with the rays of the morning sun shining upon her young face . . . she looked like Christophé.
Their gazes held, and Scarlett saw a blank stare that chilled her. Then the girl looked down at the street, her hands clasped tightly together in front of her.
Scarlett blinked rapidly, her heart pounding in her chest. The babe moved, sudden and strong, and she inhaled, grasping her stomach. Oh, please God! Not here!
Scarlett stopped and gripped her stomach, which brought her mother and Stacia rushing to her side. But the pain passed quickly and she brushed off their concern. Taking the girl’s hand, Scarlett kept her attention on the silent girl as she led the women through Les Halles, the central market in Paris. She never spoke aloud, but she did point out the best stalls to buy meat and fish and homegrown produce when asked.
Scarlett managed to guide her over to a fruit stand by taking a gentle grip on her elbow. She allowed her mother and sister to forge ahead with their packages, then pulled the girl into an uncrowded aisle. She gently took hold of the pointed chin and lifted the girl’s head. Their eyes locked, and Scarlett saw panic in them.
“I know who you are.” She spoke in a soft, soothing voice. Christophé had refused to speak of his sister. What had happened? “Your surname. It is St. Laurent, is it not?”
The girl gasped and pulled away, but not before Scarlett saw the sudden burst of tears in her eyes. She started to run away. Scarlett reached for her, tried to run after her, but soon realized she couldn’t catch up. So encumbered by the babe and her rounded body, she was soon gasping for air. She leaned over, her head tilted up, watching the fleeing heels of one Émilie St. Laurent.
“DISAPPEARED?” ROBESPIERRE THUNDERED at Scarlett, causing her to rear back. The last few hours the women had looked for the girl all over the marketplace, all the while Scarlett’s pains increased in intensity and frequency. She didn’t tell anyone. She tried her best to push through each one by walking fast with her sister and mother, searching and calling, not knowing what would happen to the girl in the unpredictable streets of Paris. Scarlett even ignored the sudden bursting feeling and the trickle of liquid running down her leg.
But now, Robespierre wanted an accounting. “She was mine!”
“She was a servant,” Scarlett reminded him softly—so softly that he lifted his head and glared at her with slitted eyes.
Scarlett shrugged, remembering the games of society. “Surely, Uncle, you would not desire to keep such an unreliable person in your employ.” She paused and allowed a note of suspicion to lace her next words. “She was so young to hold such a position in your household.”
He looked ready to impale her. A sudden pain gripped her whole stomach, but she stilled her mind to one focus and blocked it from her mind. This moment meant everything.
Everything.
She touched his sleeve. “I will find you a better servant. I can see that you need a woman here to help you run things. You are too busy with the more important work of the Council to be worrying about runaway servants.” She paused, all compassion and innocence. “Unless she was more? A distant relative perhaps?”
Robespierre jerked away from her touch and searching gaze, taking a deep swallow from his glass. “Of course not.” His clipped speech dripped with anger.
“Good.” Scarlett laughed, a carefree, tinkling sound that chimed around the room. “We shall put your household to such rights that you shall not have a worry of how anything is managed as your head rests on your pillow. Trust me, Uncle. We are so very grateful for your care. Let us take good care of you—as you have of us.”
He turned and stared at her as a shiver followed by another deep spasm racked her womb. He nodded once, quick and hard. “Merci.” With that, he left the room.
Scarlett sank into a nearby chair and gripped her stomach, her brow breaking into an immediate sweat.
Her mother spoke from her seated position in the salon. “Whatever are you up to, Scarlett?”
Stacia gave her a small smile. “You are better at this game than I realized. I am learning much watching you.”
Scarlett started to smile, but the pains took over. Without someone to rescue, her whole being concentrated on the task of giving birth. She curled inward and groaned.
“Scarlett!”
They rushed to her side.
Scarlett turned her head against the pale blue silk of the Louis XIV chair. “Don’t tell Robespierre. Tell him nothing. Not yet.”
Chapter Sixteen
Christophé stumbled down the street into the white light of a city square. He gazed up at the scaffolding and then the guillotine itself. It was just a short distance from Robespierre’s door. How convenient, he thought in a distracted way. His gaze left the guillotine and rose to the blue sky.
“I never thought You to be cruel.” He knew it was a sin, blaming God. He thought of Job and how he had wrestled with his life crashing down around him when he had been so good, so upright. He thought of Job’s understanding of God . . . so now Christophé wrestled. Why would God allow him such a pitiless moment of heart-stopping hope?
He took the knife from its hidden place within his cloak and stared at it, seeing how paltry it was, how small he was. Go home, he told himself. Never mind that he didn’t have one.
He weaved down the walkway and street, like a man who has too frequently imbibed, heading back toward the chateau. Passersby avoided his staggering steps and vacant stare, clearly afraid of the knife that hung loose in his hand. He was sweating profusely as he rounded the stone edges of the mansion and slipped through the back door. Without care or caution, he stumbled up the servants’ stairs, images of Émilie mo
unting the platform, of her strapped to a wooden board, of the sound of the thick blade as it swooshed through the air, and then the cheers of the crowd. It replayed in his mind in vivid detail and sickened him so much that he had to cling to the handrail on the stairs and stop. With effort from deep in his belly he clenched his teeth, forcing his mind away from the ghastly memory and on something more stable, more solidifying to his legs—revenge. He began to climb the stairs again, imagining how he would do it.
Robespierre. Whenever he’d seen the man, Robespierre had always given the room a chill, as if a dark presence was among them. Even the most precocious child would shy away from this vile being. His too-pointed chin, the powdered and curled wig, and those ever-moving wide-set eyes . . .
Christophé had seen the man before he brought destruction on his family and home. He recalled those times now, how Robespierre often stood in the darkest corner of a room, observing, slowly sipping from his wine. Then he would blurt something out. And it was either brilliant or inane. As if his mind and heart were never in tune. One moment clumsy and even reckless, then next he had an air about him that had everyone on pins and needles. Waiting and not a little frightened of what he might do next.
Christophé pushed open his bedchamber door. It creaked loud in the stillness. He stepped over the threshold looking toward his bed. “How will he die?” The whispered words flowed into the quiet.
A shadow moved. Too quick. He hadn’t even thought. The knife came up but slipped into the elements of air, gravity taking it slowly down as a blow crashed down on his arm. He watched the knife, as it turned and twisted to land, point first, into the wooden floor. Something hard cracked against his skull. Time slowed. He tottered and turned—and saw him.
In the last second of consciousness a voice sprung to mind that wasn’t his own. A cackling voice that asked with pleasure: How will he die, indeed?
