by Damian Serbu
Xavier practically felt the rumbling before she erupted.
“Do I need an army of men to protect my virtue? I know about the danger. When my friends criticize Louis in public I withhold my opinion, but I won’t become a prisoner in this house.” Silent anger filled the room as Catherine paced the floor and turned again to her elder brother. “How dare you think that I’ll change that now?”
As Catherine ranted, Xavier listened with dismay until Michel shot out of his chair and stormed out. He and Catherine stared after him.
“I suppose that I’m too hard on him,” Catherine finally said, calm.
Xavier could not help but chuckle. It was meek, bold, defiant, and humble all at once. Classic Catherine.
“He always wants his men to watch over me. I don’t need some man lording over my every move.”
As these words escaped her mouth, Jérémie entered the room.
“Jérémie, Michel thinks I need armed guards everywhere I go, but I think your staying here has pacified him. You’re like a brother to me. Thank you.”
“I’m not sure that I want to be a brother if I receive the same wrath,” Jérémie said dryly.
“You’re a brother like Xavier,” she corrected. “Kind, gentle, and loving, not like the ogre who just left.”
“How about more wine?” Xavier asked. He went to the bar and began uncorking a bottle to distract his sister from her tirade. Thankfully, Jérémie changed the subject to the revolution and thus ended the latest sibling quarrel.
Xavier and the Revolution
27 June 1789
XAVIER ENJOYED THE fresh air as he waited for Michel. He wondered about his brother’s mood after storming out of the house last night, and he assumed Michel would still be domineering. A light breeze blew as Xavier smelled the flowers and looked at his finely kept garden.
The minute he saw Michel riding through the mud on his horse and the dark expression on his brother’s face, Xavier knew that Michel’s mood was much worse today. Michel dismounted, tied his horse to the fence, and marched to Xavier as if he were a general over Catholic priests.
“Good morning,” Xavier said, hoping to defuse Michel’s temper.
“May we go inside to some place private?” Michel asked.
Without responding, Xavier led them into the sanctuary and beyond, to parts of the church that even he seldom visited. They passed a couple of elderly women who cleaned the church, nodded, and went on their way. These back rooms were dimly lit even in the daylight, and they afforded total privacy.
“I come on the king’s business,” Michel said. “He’s made an announcement that will affect you.”
Xavier slumped into a chair.
Michel did so as well, but sat erect, still the officer. His medals and uniform insignias spoke of his success and the reverence that he held for this duty.
“Louis has ordered all clergy to join the Third Estate. Even the nobility must join. He’s trying to appease the masses.”
“Will this stop the revolution?” Xavier asked, numb.
“Will you obey?”
“Do I have a choice? I’ll do so willingly if it helps the people.”
“Your allegiance should be to the king,” Michel said.
“You know what I meant. I’m loyal to him, too.”
They fell silent and Xavier shifted, uncomfortable, thoughts reeling at these new developments.
“I’m glad that you have decided to listen to me,” Michel said finally. “But I have other concerns. I’ve heard, and I can’t divulge my sources, that you and a nun do secret ceremonies. You must stop for your safety. Do you understand?”
“I’m not a child, Michel.” Xavier shot Michel an angry stare. “Keep your secret informants, hire spies to follow me, but I’ll continue ministering to these people regardless of the threat. Do you ever consider your arrogance? You risk your life every day in the army. But that won’t stop you, even if Catherine and I pleaded for you to protect yourself. Why is my occupation different?”
“This isn’t the time to challenge Catholic authority.”
“Stop it.” Xavier pounded the arms of his chair.
Michel jumped up. “Don’t you care about your security?” His voice was harsh in the closeness of the room.
“What does that have to do with serving these people?”
“What about the other things that you do? One of my soldiers is from your parish. He and his mother glow with admiration when they talk about you. But he recently told me something more disturbing.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your lover.”
Xavier sat, dumbfounded. Lover? Did he mean Thomas?
“Don’t look at me like an idiot,” Michel said. “How could you let others see you with him? How could you defile our name publicly?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Xavier lied.
Michel leaned in front of Xavier and put his hands on his brother’s knees. His face was no longer red and he looked lovingly into Xavier’s eyes, though the priest fumed. Michel ruffled Xavier’s hair and pulled their foreheads together. Then he almost whispered, “I don’t care about your affairs. I apologize. But you have to be careful, for all of us. I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens to you.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Xavier again lied as tears flowed.
“I have to go,” Michel said. “And you leave me no choice. I’m ordering you to stop the private rites and never go out in public with this man.” Michel strode out of the room with those words.
Xavier was embarrassed, angry, confused, sad, and humiliated. He bitterly resolved to change nothing. It was none of Michel’s business.
He was still weeping when a soft knock sounded at the door. A woman’s voice said from the other side, “Abbé, there’s a man here for confession.”
Xavier quickly wiped his eyes and thanked her as he raced to the confessional. He relished the opportunity to hide from his reality and deal with another’s suffering as he slid into the booth, opened the screen, and addressed the individual.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Without waiting for an answer, Jérémie launched into a tale. “I know you, abbé, intimately. And I’m afraid that you know me too well. I sin constantly, against God, the church, and man. But I need help and had nowhere else to turn. My confession, my secret longing that offends God, is for your sister. I love her. I wanted to marry her but that’s impossible. Yet I live with her now, pretending to be her husband. It’s torture to keep all of this locked away in my mind and hide. Forgive me, Father, on behalf of your entire family, Catherine, Michel, and perhaps God, forgive me and help me.”
“I see no sin in your love,” Xavier said quietly, sympathizing with Jérémie’s pain.
“But it’s wrong. It’s all I think about.”
“We can’t always control our minds. Maybe you need forgiveness from yourself, not God.”
“Thank you, Father.” Jérémie practically bolted out of the confessional.
Xavier hurried from his, too, wanting to embrace Jérémie, but by the time he did so, it was too late. Jérémie was gone.
Xavier returned to his duties around the church, absorbed in work to forget about Michel and Jérémie and Thomas and all the misery these times had wrought. Thank God for his work because it gave him an escape, something tangible and good. As the world swirled into activity around him, within his family, his personal life, and the political future of France, Xavier hid in the reality of helping one person at a time as the church called him to do.
Catherine: Tricolours
9 July 1789 Early evening
CATHERINE WAS WORKING in her study when the butler announced that Xavier and Jérémie waited in the parlor for her. She hurried to greet them and after the usual pleasantries, Xavier and Catherine stared at Jérémie, who fidgeted with a coat button and glanced about as if looking for something he had lost.
“The Third Estate is acting,” he announced. �
��This isn’t another warning or attempt to get the king to acknowledge them, this is open revolt. The Third Estate declared itself a National Assembly today. The bourgeoisie is in complete control.”
“Did the king move against them?” Catherine asked.
“Not yet.”
“Was there violence?” Xavier asked.
“The peasants are rioting throughout France. They’re starving, after all.”
“Jérémie, what on earth is that scarf you’re wearing?” It suddenly struck Catherine that, in addition to his usual suit and stoic clothing, he wore a tricoloured scarf of blue, white, and red.
“The symbol of freedom,” he said. “Parisians all over have adopted these colors in support of the National Assembly. They call themselves patriots and wear the blue, white, and red to be as free as the Americans are.”
“Where can I get one?” Catherine tugged idly on the ends of Jérémie’s, suddenly wanting to feel part of this movement.
“I brought you one.” He pulled out another tricoloured scarf from his pocket and waved it in front of Catherine, who squealed with delight. She tied it around her neck and marveled at the fact that colors, nothing more, could inspire the passions of hundreds of Frenchmen.
All three admired her new accessory when Michel interrupted their jovial mood.
“What on earth are you doing? Have you completely lost your minds?”
“It’s nice to see you, too, Michel.” Catherine turned to address him, steeled for his tirade.
“My house is full of traitors!”
“Everyone is wearing these colors in Paris,” Jérémie said. “Actually, and I know you warned us against treason, but if we walk around Paris we’re safer from the people if we wear these scarves.”
“See, Michel, you’re not always right, so leave us alone,” Catherine said petulantly. “I might as well tell you now. The Saint-Laurent household must transform itself into a safe center for discussing ideas and change. We must open our doors to everyone with the only rule being respect for all people. This family has guided France through a multitude of transformations and it must once again be at the forefront of all that happens.”
She wanted to make this house, this huge palatial estate, a gigantic revolutionary salon. She had already planned, moreover, for the possibility of violence and intended to hire guards to maintain peace. Anyone could enter, regardless of wealth, politics, or otherwise, so long as they came to discuss the issues openly and peacefully.
“Good Lord, you’ve lost your mind,” Michel said.
“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Jérémie exclaimed.
“What does your darling fiancé think?” Michel asked sarcastically.
“Leave him out of this. That’s my affair. Jérémie is with me. What about you two?”
“I’ll not listen to this.”
“Running away again, Michel?”
Michel slumped into a chair, but Xavier’s silence bothered Catherine more than Michel’s, bombast, whose reaction she predicted.
“Let’s retire to dinner,” she announced. “I want everyone’s opinion. Except yours,” she looked at Michel and shoved them toward the dining room. As Michel and Jérémie went ahead, Catherine walked slowly beside Xavier.
“Are you angry at me, too?”
Xavier smiled. “No, not at all. You know that I don’t like to provoke Michel.”
“Is that all?”
He didn’t respond.
“Well, do you approve?”
“I trust your judgment.”
“Then what is really bothering you? Tell me.”
“I’m scared. It’s embarrassing, perhaps stupid, but all this talk, and the rioting, the military outside Paris, it hints at impending violence.”
“Have you talked to Thomas?”
“He’s like you. He finds it fascinating and isn’t bothered that a few people might die in order to oust the king.”
She squeezed his arm in support. “Perhaps we’ll discuss that later.” She pulled him gently with her. “This has become the first official meeting of the Saint-Laurent salon,” Catherine pronounced as she entered the dining room. “All opinions are welcome. I suppose even yours, Michel, so long as you’re open to everyone else’s ideas.”
“I’m open to discussing this plan, especially its danger.”
“Did you not hear me? We’ll listen to you if you listen to us. Please sit. Xavier speaks first.” She did not mean to put Xavier on the spot but she had heard enough from Michel and this would keep him quiet. She was ablaze, positively giddy, with the mere potential for converting this house. She had the financing, the location, and now, supporters.
Thomas: Chicken Bones
9 July 1789 Night
THOMAS RACED TOWARD Xavier’s church but even his speed seemed slow as he worried about the abbé. He awoke earlier to a commotion in the street and discovered from a passerby that the city had erupted into rioting and people attacked symbols of power, especially those within the church. Thomas found the church empty so went to the Saint-Laurent home. He quietly went up the front stairs and heard voices through a window—his abbé’s soothing laugh relieved him. Xavier was with Catherine in the dining room, safe. Thomas wanted to run and hug him but thought better of it, so he turned around and walked more slowly back to the church to wait, knowing that Catherine would arrange safe transport for her brother.
Back in Xavier’s parish, Thomas burst into the chapel without knocking and headed for the priest’s private quarters. Since they talked here for privacy, he often let himself in. Thomas wished that he could take Xavier to his flat, with even more privacy than the church offered, but he feared that Xavier would ask too many questions or see something that Thomas wanted to hide because it terrified him to think about Xavier’s reaction if he found out that Thomas was a vampire. Within the small room, Thomas looked out the window and at the things that Xavier collected. He had very little for someone of his wealth. Clothes, all clerical garments, quills, parchment, and books— everywhere there were books, all intellectual and sterile, nothing to betray the deep emotion within the man, nothing personal, nothing to indicate the marvelous personality or cunning wit.
Thomas stretched out on the bed, loving the smell of Xavier upon the sheets. They always had a faint hint of Xavier, a soft scent, not perfumed but not ugly, and Thomas reveled in it. He sat up and looked around one more time, always surprised that only one crucifix hung over a dresser, with nothing else on the walls. He glanced at the sparse setting, everything neatly in its place, but there was not much here and nothing out of order. Xavier even alphabetized his books. Thomas was shocked, however, to see a discarded bone on the floor near the dresser. How unlike Xavier to throw something on the floor. He stooped over to pick it up and saw even more underneath the dresser. His blood ran cold. What was this about? The one set of bones looked like a chicken wing.
He struggled to control himself as he suspected that more was afoot than a carelessly thrown away pile of bones. Anthony had warned him about just such a situation. Both knew that Thomas, of all vampires, would be hard-pressed to maintain his wits without lashing out or killing someone. He considered telling Xavier about it with the hope that together they might persuade Catherine to get away from Marcel. Thomas was loathe, however, to put Xavier in the middle, especially when Catherine might ignore them or even think that they fabricated the story. For Xavier’s sake, Thomas decided to handle this himself. He left a note and left.
Thomas moved with inhuman speed and, as predicted, Anne sat in front of her fire despite the July night’s blistering heat.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite creature of the night. And no, I’m not about to do any potion, tonight, either.”
“This is more serious. I don’t want to put you at risk but I need confirmation of something. In your religion, do chicken bones signal evil intent?”
“My, my, but aren’t you all business? Not talking about love tonight, I see. Instead, you bring disturbed spiri
ts into this place. If I were you, I wouldn’t want to know about those bones.”
Thomas pulled the bones out of his pocket. “It’s too late.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Voodoo, maybe. Perhaps hoodoo. Depends on the source what it means, what it intends. I’m convinced to give you counsel this time,” she said. “This is grave. Chicken bones have the ability to call up evil spirits if ordained with the right words. This is dangerous. If you know who did it—”
Before she finished Thomas uttered a sincere thank you and rushed from the room. She had confirmed his suspicion that the barbarian planted those bones in Xavier’s room to inflict ill upon him and that their first confrontation had failed to squash Marcel’s plans.
Thomas paused outside to gather his senses. He wanted to snap someone in half and kill this devil who haunted Xavier. Without thinking, Thomas slammed his fist into the wall of a small bakery, regretting it as the wall swayed and a hole opened where his fist hit, and then, almost in slow motion, the wall crumbled. Thomas rushed from the scene as people ran out to see what had happened.
He discovered Marcel, predictably, milling about the bars and profiting as usual as he bartered tricolour scarves to patrons who gobbled them up. Thomas rushed forward and whispered to Marcel that they needed to talk. To emphasize his point, he took a fingernail and slashed Marcel’s wrist with a slight gash.
Alone in an alley, Marcel drew a knife and glared at Thomas. Thomas grabbed Marcel’s arm and forced the knife from his hand.
“I thought we had an agreement,” Thomas said, enunciating each word.
“I haven’t harmed the priest.”
“No games. I know about the spy and I found the bones.” He had Marcel by the neck and pushed him against the wall. “I know the meaning of both. I should snap your spine in half.”
“Wait. Let’s talk. But I wouldn’t risk killing me until you know what those bones are about. We can reach another accord.”
Thomas did not believe him, yet Anthony haunted him. Marcel’s presence was about Catherine, not Xavier. Marcel knew too much, and now so did Catherine. Thomas had to be careful.
