The Vampire's Angel

by Damian Serbu

  Xavier glanced at Jérémie, wondering if he knew about Marcel. Xavier had witnessed the potion, but perhaps Jérémie saw him as simply a rival.

  “Anne,” Xavier said, “I’m not sure that this will do anything. And I’m worried about Michel. Marcel threatened him because he wants to block this marriage. How will this help, if all we’re doing is watching?”

  Anne became serious and patted each man on the knee. “It’s because of what you told me about her that I don’t give you more to do. She can’t know, mostly because she’d tell him and then he’d come after us. I’m hoping, though, that you can provide me with some hints of something we might do. Perhaps we can save her in time. But I didn’t come claiming to know all the answers. I only want to help. I’m afraid, for better or worse, that this is all we can safely do.”

  “Did Thomas send you?” Xavier asked, suspicion creeping into his thoughts.

  Anne smiled, then slowly, from her gut, another laugh erupted. “Abbé, you make me laugh,” she said. “You weren’t thinking about him, were you?” More laughter, a fierce cackling. “I’m sorry,” Anne grabbed his arm with both hands. “You know I love you. And yes, Thomas asked me to look into this.”

  “As I suspected.”

  “Xavier, were you telling the truth?” Jérémie asked. “That you never told this woman anything? I’ve never met her before today but she knows about Catherine?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Then how did you know? Anne?”

  Once Jérémie asked, it puzzled Xavier as well. Only Michel, Thomas, and he knew about Jérémie’s love for Catherine. He had mentioned the problems to Anne but never gave her names, and he doubted that Thomas betrayed his confidence. Yet she knew about Jérémie.

  Anne grinned at the corner of her mouth.

  “If someone betrayed me, I need to know it,” Jérémie said.

  Anne shrieked with laughter. She bent over, then hugged Jérémie, who sat stiffly. “No one betrayed you. Rest assured that this abbé would never do such a thing. I don’t know a more honorable person. I don’t know who else knows your little secret. Let’s just say I have ways of knowing things.”

  “You read my mind?” Jérémie’s eyes narrowed.

  “I suppose you could call it that. Maybe it’s just intuition. I don’t need you to worry your pretty little head about that. You conceal it well. Hardly a handful of people could guess. But right now, I need you to focus on making her better.”

  Jérémie nodded, yet Xavier saw his anguish. Catherine’s voice interrupted the conversation. From the sound of it, she was charging down the hallway in typical Catherine fashion. Xavier looked over at Anne, imploring her to leave.

  Anne jumped to a back door, turned and smiled. “I had better go. We’ve enough trouble without explaining my visit. Do as I say.” She hurried away as Catherine entered.

  “What on earth are you two sitting here for? You look as if you’re in the middle of a funeral,” she scolded. “With all the people and conversations to join, you’d rather sit quietly by yourselves? You two are so strange.” Catherine glanced at the bottle of wine on the table. “Perhaps the wine made you lethargic. Come, I need some help. I’m thinking of reconfiguring a room.”

  With that, Catherine sent them on a frantic journey through the house. She acted like her usual, distracted, frenzied self as she talked quickly and changed subjects without warning. But at least she was a recognizable Catherine. Xavier did her bidding willingly, glad to have a familiar Catherine to deal with.

  Xavier: Reconciliation

  14 July 1789 Morning

  XAVIER SAT DROWSILY in the Saint-Laurent home, at a meeting Michel had called. Catherine, Jérémie, Michel, and he sat in the library’s heat and Xavier struggled to stay awake. Michel had shuttered the windows and closed the doors, and soon the air was stifling.

  Michel spoke with wisdom when he told them that the breaking point had arrived. This meant more violence, worse than before, and increased danger for the military and aristocracy. Although Michel all too commonly issued such warnings, this one carried more weight. Michel had talked about it for over twenty minutes and Catherine had yet to balk.

  Finally, he got to his real point. “Would all of you consider fleeing Paris? Most of the aristocrats have already left, and the few remaining are doing so as we speak.”

  “We can’t leave,” Catherine said firmly.

  Michel clenched his hands then unclenched them. “Do you understand what I said about increased violence?”

  “But what about the hospital?” She looked at him, imploring. “Jérémie and I spent so much time converting the second floor into an emergency hospital. It’s needed even more now.”

  Michel seemed to reconsider. “At least promise me one more time that you’ll fortify the house.”

  “I agreed to that,” Catherine answered.

  “I’ve one more thing to ask you.” Michel dropped his voice to barely a whisper.

  “What?” Catherine asked through clenched teeth. Xavier braced himself for what he felt sure was another argument.

  “Where’s Marcel?” Michel asked. “Why isn’t he protecting you?”

  Xavier had wondered the same thing but expected Catherine to erupt about it so he said nothing. But she sat oddly quiet, with a strange glassy look to her eyes. “He had to leave Paris,” she said finally.

  “He left you alone in Paris?” Michel gaped at her.

  “He asked me to come along, but—well, I think that...oh, let me just say it. He’s frightened of the violence, positively frightened for his life. He insisted that they’d target him, such a wealthy merchant, and so he had to leave the city. He begged me to go, he really did, but I won’t leave.”

  Xavier mentally noted how Catherine handled herself. She stayed calm without lashing out at Michel, yet the minute they mentioned Marcel her face became red and she scratched at her neck. Should he tell Anne these things?

  “Well, I must go. I wish that you’d reconsider staying, but take the precautions I advised. Please.” His gaze took in everyone seated.

  Xavier exhaled softly in relief. They had avoided an argument.

  After Michel hugged Catherine and Jérémie, he asked Xavier to walk him to the city’s edge. “One of my men will escort you home. I would like to talk with you but I must hurry back to my men.” Xavier agreed apprehensively, remembering their last, unpleasant meeting.

  “That won’t be necessary. The men from my parish will follow to protect me.” With that, the two men headed down the street.

  “You showed much patience with Catherine,” Xavier said as they started down the street.

  “I’m trying. This isn’t the time to leave things negatively.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wish that she’d listen. I hate this feeble man that she wants to marry, and I want her to marry Jérémie. None of that has changed. But this revolution has brought things into perspective. It’s more important to focus on loving and admiring her. Besides, there’s nothing in the world that I can do about Marcel. Is there anything that we can do that won’t anger her?”

  “No,” Xavier said with resignation. “You know she won’t listen. Has Marcel tried to intimidate you again?”

  “I haven’t seen him recently. I understand that he left Paris.”

  “Have you done anything against him, as you had threatened?”

  “Do you really want to know?” Michel asked, though his tone signaled an end to that conversation.

  Michel walked tall through the streets in his military uniform despite being a marked man. People cat-called and sneered.

  “I don’t mean to sound morbid,” Michel said. “But anything could happen to any one of us. God forbid, someone could attack Catherine because of that salon, and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if we last parted in an argument. Furthermore, I’ve no idea what will happen to me. I’m no longer endeared to the monarchy, but I don’t see a viable alternative. I’m at risk.”
r />   “You’re right, no one should leave in anger.”

  “Speaking of leaving under bad circumstances,” Michel stood erect with his hands behind his back but his voice quivered. “I must apologize for my behavior when I came to see you at the church.”

  “Forget about it. It was nothing,” Xavier said. He started toying with the cross that hung around his neck.

  “Please, let me finish.” Michel stopped in the street and looked down at Xavier. “I judge you too quickly. I always have. I suppose that you know we all have protected you too much. When I come to that small church, all I see is a dilapidated building and I want you to live in more luxury. As with Catherine, I failed to account for what you need, or what you want.”

  “Michel, please, I understand.”

  “I need to say this.” Michel’s voice trembled and he fought back tears. “I couldn’t be prouder of you. You’re worthy of sainthood. You’ve done so much for people, it astounds me.” He embraced Xavier. Then he walked, ever the officer, as if trying to outpace his emotions. “You can’t follow farther. It’s too dangerous.”

  They had reached the southeast corner of town and stood on the road to Versailles. The rioting happened on this road and angry mobs marched to the palace to throw things at the king. No priest—guards or not—was safe. Xavier was speechless, though he had a thousand things to say. He froze.

  “One more thing,” Michel said before he looked away. “About your relationship with Thomas. I was wrong about that, too. Do what makes you happy.”

  Again they hugged, a long embrace, Xavier’s face pressed into the medals that dangled from his brother’s chest. Finally, Michel turned to leave. He got a few paces before Xavier cried out. When Michel turned, already composed, Xavier stammered the only thing he could say:

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Xavier.”

  Those words lifted Xavier his entire way home, but his concern quickly turned to Catherine. What could he do? He determined to ask Jérémie, and he was happy to find Jérémie alone, watching out a window. This time, Xavier poured the wine and handed it to Jérémie.

  “We need to talk about Catherine,” Xavier said. “I’m afraid that Anne’s efforts will be too late.”

  “She has made her decision,” Jérémie said with agitation.

  After the reconciliation with Michel, Xavier hated to provoke Jérémie but uncharacteristically wanted to propose a bold move.

  “There’s one thing we haven’t tried.”

  “What?”

  “Have you considered going to her?”

  “And warn her about Marcel? I thought we agreed not to.”

  “No, I mean to tell her how you feel.”

  Jérémie’s gaze shot around the room as if a spy lurked. “Don’t ever mention that again, do you understand?”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you. But with this potion and Anne’s concerns, if Catherine decided to leave him on her own, that would solve everything.”

  “We can’t talk about this. Ever.” Jérémie’s voice was like iron. Hard and implacable.

  “Please, listen to me—”

  “Never again!” Jérémie slammed his glass down and stalked out of the room.

  Catherine: The Bastille Falls

  14 July 1789 Afternoon

  WARMED BY MARCEL’S medicine, Catherine headed into the streets. A headache had started an hour ago, but she put the powder into her wine and soon all her pain vanished and she could turn her attention to her salon that operated so smoothly and peacefully, where people discussed all sorts of matters without fighting. Lately, it was abuzz with news that Parisians had assembled again to demand a change. Well, she wanted to see for herself.

  Catherine headed east toward the Bastille after she heard that people were gathering there. When someone came to the salon, telling everyone what was happening, she had donned the garb of a commoner to go see for herself. She wanted to see what the latest revolutionary activity had wrought. Why would anyone make an example of that miserable building? Oh, she had heard the rumors of torture and arbitrary beatings, but Michel denounced them as false. To the citizens, however, it represented a powerful symbol of oppression, where innocent people were sent because of poverty, not necessarily misdeeds. Still, why not attack a government building? She would rather attack les Tuileries, Louis’s Parisian palace.

  At the Bastille’s outskirts, she saw that the moment had arrived. Many people fled the scene, especially women, as the violence escalated to new heights. A huge mass of angry people, out of control, lashed out. Yet even as many ran in terror, nothing frightened Catherine.

  As the Bastille came into view and she pressed forward, the crowd suddenly rushed toward the structure, shouting as one. They stormed the Bastille, pushing past guards and slaughtering them. Catherine, like others near her, got caught in the thrust though she did not lift a hand against anyone. Guns fired into the mob and people fell to the ground, which further enraged the rabble, causing them to shove with more determination. More and more guards fell and, before she knew it, she stood at the Bastille’s entrance, watching hordes of peasants run inside with drawn weapons.

  They liberated prisoners. They took control, and no threat to their safety stopped them. She stood there watching with fascination, numb to the killing and feeling like nothing more than a distant observer. Surprisingly, no one paid her any attention as some man took lead of the mob and championed his cause by denouncing the monarchy and by shouting at the crowd, exhorting them on.

  Though it felt like this took place in the blink of an eye, the sun’s position indicated that she had been there a couple of hours. She only noticed that time had passed when things slowed and the violence halted.

  People still poured in and out of the Bastille after they had freed every prisoner and murdered every guard. Catherine expected soldiers to arrive, but none did. A few regiments formed on the outskirts of the mob but quickly retreated whenever spotted because the people attacked without provocation. This was anarchy.

  Catherine was finally shocked out of her trance when the peasants dragged a recognizable face into their midst and surrounded him. They threw Jacques de Flesselles, a man Catherine knew as a rich merchant, to the ground, bleeding, in front of her. Apparently, he had become their aristocratic symbol of oppression. They took turns kicking and spitting on him. This scene finally sparked Catherine’s fear because they attacked someone she knew, not some nameless oppressor. When the mob leaders had had enough, they charged into the center of the people surrounding him, grabbed him by the hair, and cut his head off. Catherine turned away, sick. This was not a glorious revolution. This was something different altogether.

  But she stayed despite her dread. Perhaps being a woman—an albatross for so much of her life because it limited her options and forced her to rely on men—protected her somehow. She was inconsequential, and ignored. She did not see any other women from her class and only men were attacked.

  Next the horde dragged the Bastille’s governor, the Marquis de Launay, outside. The poor Marquis, she had entertained him at her home when Michel had his military friends to dinner. He was always pleasant...what on earth did they intend to do to him?

  Whack! His head rolled into the street to cheers.

  The atmosphere quieted enough that Catherine finally moved, still numb. She thought what had happened was predictable, but she was unable to support the uprising, either, because the violence somehow debased it. Hundreds of people milled about, and it was clear that the masses firmly controlled the Bastille.

  After touring the inside with everyone else, still mesmerized by the scene, Catherine exited the prison to a surprising sight. Marcel, her precious Marcel, was across the street, talking to a couple of former prisoners. He sold them something—she had no idea what—but he appeared to be very busy. He also looked positively handsome. But why was he here? He had told her that he had to leave Paris. She wanted to go over to him but thought better of it, so she instead wat
ched him for a couple more minutes, admiring his charm and the way he persuaded people into purchasing his wares. He did keep looking around like a frightened rabbit and then, when a new mob marched down the street singing patriotic songs and shouting, he bolted the other way. How odd, Catherine thought. She would need to ask him about this when next she saw him. She doubted she could find him in the crowds, so she spent the remainder of the afternoon watching the people, listening to their excitement, and absorbing the reality of it all. The Bastille had fallen to the commoners, the people in the streets, and it was anyone’s guess what would happen next.

  She left only when the rain came. It started as a light sprinkle but then came down more heavily and people headed for cover. Catherine, entirely drenched, started back toward the house. The one power that still had control over all—Mother Nature—ended the sightseeing at the Bastille. Despite this weather, Catherine saw a few pockets of resistance and fighting, which she carefully avoided, often crossing the street or turning the corner.

  She turned down one narrow alleyway, took a few steps, and realized her mistake. The residents had set up a blockade. They trapped people once they came down the street and charged a toll. How vile, to profit from current misery. But they had also constructed a makeshift prison and apparently had some criteria that sent certain Parisians into this exile. Catherine almost asked one of the women about their little racket when someone pulled her from behind and yanked her back around the corner.