Love and Honor

by Harry Samkange

  “I rather like it. It makes you a little less intimidating,” Sérolène observed.

  “Intimidating?” Nicolas said, rather too loudly. Sérolène rolled her eyes indulgently, her point made by his unintended outburst.

  “I see. Forgive me, my dear,” he said softly.

  “Perhaps it had not occurred to you that you cut a rather formidable figure, Monsieur le Chevalier?” she said with a smile, reminding him to lower his voice by lowering hers.

  “No. Not really, I guess,” he whispered.

  “Well, you would do well to remember it. Although I do believe that perhaps I’m the only one who isn’t afraid of you in the least,” she replied, lightly stroking the inside of his arm with her fingers, her touch never failing to soothe him.

  “How relieved I am that despite all my faults you still seem to understand and forgive me,” Nicolas said, regarding her with complete adoration.

  “Yes. You are indeed very fortunate on that account, Monsieur,” Sérolène replied, smiling playfully at him.

  “Mademoiselle de La Bouhaire,” he sighed, stopping briefly to take her hand in both of his, his voice deep with emotion.

  “I love you so dearly…if perhaps one day your uncle should consent…do you think you might…that is, perhaps you would not altogether dismiss…I mean....” he stumbled on confusedly, unable for some reason to get the thought, so clear in his mind, out of his mouth in anything but a jumbled mess. Sérolène touched her index finger to his lips to silence him.

  “Are you trying to ask me to marry you, Monsieur?” she said plainly, her eyes lucid and clear in the light of a nearby lantern.

  “Yes, my dearest. I suppose I am,” he confessed. Her smile outshone the moon with its splendor.

  “You see,” she whispered, leaning in close to him and kissing him softly on the lips. “Wishes do come true after all.”

  “Come along, you two!” Francis called out, prompting them to separate to a more discreet distance. They hurried reluctantly to catch themselves up, the barely concealed joy on their faces hinting at the secret that they now shared. There were curious glances from Francis and Julienne, the light from the deck lanterns casting a dim glow which danced about them, adding a pale ghostly color to their faces.

  “Come, my dear cousine, let us to bed. I’m afraid I can’t keep my eyes open anymore,” Julienne declared. Sérolène nodded with a reciprocal yawn as she took Julienne by the arm. Francis bowed low, Nicolas joining him in the courtesy as the ladies curtsied their goodnights and turned to go.

  “Good night, Monsieurs,” they both said at once, leaving their gentlemen escorts at the entrance to the lower decks. Only when Sérolène had gone did it occur to Nicolas that she had not actually given him an answer to his earlier proposal. His musings on that subject, however, were interrupted by Francis, who put his arm on his brother’s shoulder, drawing him aside.

  “One more turn before we head below ourselves?” Francis asked. Nicolas nodded as they proceeded to take another circuit around the deserted deck.

  “Tell me, Francis, what is it that you’re up to with Papa and Baron Salvagnac? I know you’re discussing more than just the plans for the ceremony in Paris,” Nicolas said. Francis nodded.

  “Perhaps you’re old enough now to have noticed, Nico, that things haven’t exactly been rosy for France these past ten years or so. There is much discontent with our policies and the state of governance. Though we may look a proud and prosperous nation, the reality is anything but. We’re almost bankrupt, in fact,” Francis said.

  “But how can a nation run out of money, Francis?” Nicolas asked in surprise.

  “In France, overspending has become a glorious habit, led primarily by the Maison du Roi and the Queen in particular. If something is not done to curb the arbitrary despotism that allows such things to occur… then, my brother, I fear for us all,” Francis said, looking about carefully to ensure their privacy.

  “Our real goal is to bring about the convening of the Estates-General. Only the meeting of such a truly national assembly will allow us to halt the advance of despotism and reform the financial system so that we can save the country,” Francis divulged. Nicolas was indeed surprised at the true object toward which his father and brother had been working secretly in concert, though his father had already made him aware of his general purpose and designs. He understood how volatile a step it would be if the Three Estates were in fact called to assembly, a convocation that had not occurred in more than a hundred years.

  “Do you mean to reform the system, Francis, or replace it?” Nicolas asked.

  “Reform if possible, replace if necessary,” Francis replied gravely.

  Dear God! Such words could be considered treasonous. Had things really slipped so far that such drastic action was required? Perhaps that is why his father had cautioned him that they all might be in danger when they returned to France, Nicolas considered. But, he realized, there were none he trusted more than his father and brother. If they felt this was the path that was needed, then he would not second-guess them. Pulling his collar tightly about him against the chill of the incoming fog, he tried to digest the implications of all that his brother had told him as they continued their sojourn around the deck.

  Below decks, Julienne and Sérolène had reached the door of their cabin, entering quietly to find everyone asleep. Just as they closed the door, Sérolène remembered, to her horror, that in her excitement she had neglected to give Nicolas an answer to his proposal.

  “Oh no!” Sérolène exclaimed softly, mortified at what she had done.

  “What is it?” Julienne exclaimed tiredly.

  “I’ve forgotten something on deck. You go to bed. I’ll be back in just a minute. I promise!” Sérolène declared urgently.

  Before Julienne could caution her to the dangers of leaving unescorted, Sérolène had bolted out the door and into the corridor. Julienne wondered if she should send one of the maids after her cousine or go in pursuit herself, but in the end, she decided to do neither. Francis and Nicolas are still on deck. I suppose it will be all right. It’s a ship, after all. What could possibly happen? she reasoned, yawning again with exhaustion as she woke her maid, who rose dutifully to help her undress.

  “What may I do to be of service?” Nicolas asked quietly as he and Francis continued their walk around the deck, the night growing increasingly fog-bound and obscure.

  “We hope His Majesty will listen to the voices of reason and reform. But if the Americans can throw off the yoke of tyranny, why can’t Frenchmen? I believe there are indeed monumental changes looming on the horizon. Perhaps not all of them will be for the worse. Maybe a more just future awaits us,” Francis said. The fog continued to roll thickly in, bringing a noticeable chill to the air and obscuring the light of the moon.

  “Interesting times await us, my brother. You must take good care to study well your chosen profession. I’ve a feeling we’ll have plenty of need for good and loyal soldiers by the time you’re ready for your commission,” Francis said. Nicolas nodded his understanding as they stood in silence, listening to the now-familiar cadence of sound as the ship moved over the waves, their silhouettes creating a ghostly army of shadows that danced on the deck in the fog.

  “When the time comes, Francis, I promise you I shall be prepared,” Nicolas assured him.

  “There’s a good lad. I knew I could count on you. Shall we turn in, then? It’s turned chilly all of a sudden. I’m always surprised at how quickly the mist can roll in on the open sea. At least it’s a sign we’re getting closer to port,” Francis said.

  “You go on, Francis; I couldn’t keep my eyes open in there, but now I want to walk a little bit more and think,” Nicolas said.

  “All right, then; I’m off,” Francis said, bowing his good night as he returned toward the center of the ship to descend down the stairway to the first deck.

  Nicolas continued his walk, stopping near the stern of the boat as he looked off into the dark gloom
of the fogbound night. He heard footsteps and turned around, thinking perhaps that Francis had returned for something, but saw instead the lone figure of the Baron de Ginestas, who regarded him for a few seconds before scurrying off in the darkness. Off to join the other rats, no doubt, Nicolas thought with contempt, barely able to see past the rear mast as the chilling fog continued to roll thickly in.

  **

  “Now’s the time. Our stone is all alone and it’s black and thick up there with no moon,” Ginestas said to Lacombe, having hurried to Lacombe’s quarters to find him and see that the dark deed he required was done.

  “What are you hiding over there? If it’s my gold, you haven’t yet earned the right to it,” Ginestas said threateningly, noting the heavily laden shoulder satchel on the floor behind Lacombe.

  “I think I’ll be the judge of that,” Lacombe said. He rushed forward, stabbing Ginestas in the throat; cutting through his windpipe and jugular with a deft slash. Ginestas’ body crumpled with a thud against the wall as his blood splashed everywhere about the cramped cabin from the ruptured vein in his neck, his mouth open wide in astonishment as it filled slowly with blood.

  “I don’t like having bosses, or partners,” Lacombe hissed, stabbing the still writhing corpse through the heart to ensure that his victim was indeed dead. Acting with calm alacrity, he then hefted the dead body into his hammock, covering it with a blanket as if it were sleeping. He didn’t need to worry about the blood that had splashed and flowed everywhere. By the time they found the body he’d be long gone. Just to be extra safe, he extinguished all the lamps to make things as dark as possible. Picking up the knife and his satchel, he left his quarters and locked the door behind him. Turning quickly in the corridor to make his way to the main deck and his means of escape, he almost ran headlong into the Vicomtesse de La Bouhaire, who had just bolted from her own cabin in search of Nicolas. He put his hand across her mouth and his knife to her throat, his eyes full of glee as she stared uncomprehendingly at him in the semi-darkness.

  “Make a sound and you die, understand?” he hissed. She nodded dully. He wiped the flat of the knife, which was still stained with Ginestas’ blood, across her face so that she could smell the metallic sweet odor; feel the sickening thick wetness across her skin. She swooned from revulsion and fear, but remembering that Nicolas was still on deck, she fought against her almost overwhelming panic.

  “Just do as I tell you and you’ll live to see another day my pretty girl, alright? Now move; quickly, up the stairs and onto the deck,” he commanded, putting the knife at her back.

  At the same time that Lacombe was making his way up with his hostage, Francis was making his way down to his cabin. Curious! Francis thought. Why is it so dark? Where have all the lanterns gone? He stumbled along in the darkness, making his way more by feel than sight. It’s as if all the lights have been purposefully extinguished or removed. Midway along the corridor, he encountered to his surprise, the Vicomtesse de La Bouhaire, who looked decidedly out of sorts.

  “I thought you’d gone to bed already, Mademoiselle?” Francis spoke to her wearily, barely able to make out her face in the dim light. Sérolène looked at him nervously but made no answer.

  “Is anything the matter? Are you all right?” Francis inquired as he neared where she stood.

  “Dear God, what’s happened to you? Is that blood on your face! Who is that behind you?” he asked, seeing another figure crouching in shadow.

  “No, Francis!” she exclaimed as he rushed quickly toward her.

  “Lacombe!” It was the last thing he said before Lacombe’s fist struck him in the jaw; knocking him senseless to the floor. Sérolène covered her mouth in horror.

  “Shut it! Or I’ll gut you and him both. I could have killed him but I didn’t. You see I’m not such a bad man am I?” the villain said. “Keep your mouth shut and stay where you are or he dies, understand?” Sérolène nodded, trembling with fear as she watched Lacombe drag Francis’ unconscious form into a nearby upright stowage locker and close him in, all the while carefully watching her. That task done, he again prompted Sérolène forward, brandishing the knife to force her compliance. She moved hesitantly forward on legs trembling with terror, more afraid than she had ever been in her life.

  “Please, Monsieur, release me. You have the treasures that you desire. I’ll not impede your escape. I give you my word,” she beseeched him. He chuckled softly at her fear and her pleading.

  “Sorry, my pretty girl, you’re my assurance of safety. Once I’m in the launch they may decide to come looking for me. You’re my passport to freedom,” he declared.

  They stepped onto the main deck, which was deserted due to the late hour. The normally well-lit area was unusually dark, a result of the sentry and watch lamps having been removed -- a small but important detail of his plan of escape, which he had accomplished on his earlier rounds. The surrounding mist obscured visibility all around the ship. How convenient that he’d volunteered for the late watch, so now there was no one to prevent him from making good his escape.

  “Besides, a man gets lonely at sea. But I promise you if your favors are as sweet as your pretty face, we’ll get on just fine,” he said, leering at Sérolène in the darkness. Sérolène recoiled at the vileness of his words and his insinuation, knowing that she would rather die than yield any of herself to him. He seemed to guess at her thoughts.

  “Don’t even think of resisting me,” he warned, poking her in the back with his dirk, the smell of her fear an aphrodisiac as she winced in pain. “Not if you want to live and to keep that pretty face intact. I’ve killed before. And I won’t hesitate to do it again,” he boasted. Like all scoundrels, he thought his threats would cow and impress his victim. Instead they made her angry, her loathing rising to the surface, overcoming the weight of her fear.

  “You shall not escape punishment for your deeds, Monsieur! God’s retribution shall follow you, no matter where you hide!” Sérolène declared, hoping perhaps for the first time in her life, that this would truly be so.

  “Where’s your God to help you now?” Lacombe scoffed as he approached the rear of the ship and his means of escape. The launch is already in the water; all that needs to be done is to descend to it and flee. I can’t trust her to come quietly. A nice tap with my fist will shut her up and make her compliant enough. When she wakes, I’ll have been under her skirts and she’ll be well and truly buggered, he reflected, laughing to himself. I’ll carry her down to the launch myself; that’s the surest way. My, how easy this is all turning out to be! he thought smugly.

  “Keep moving!” he hissed, wondering why Sérolène had abruptly stopped in front of him. Looking up through the fog, he soon saw the answer for himself.

  ***

  Nicolas stood against the railing, looking into the murky distance, barely able to see much farther than a few feet in front of him. The place where he stood was uncharacteristically dark, both of the lamps that normally illuminated this part of the deck having been blown out. That’s odd, he thought to himself. I wonder where the watch is? He heard a quick shuffling noise behind him and began to turn toward the sound. In the blink of an eye, a hand was over his mouth and he felt the cold biting steel of a blade against his throat.

  “Evening, Monsieur le Chevalier,” a voice whispered mockingly. He recognized it immediately as belonging to Lacombe. “One sound and I cut your throat, understand? Nod your head slowly if you do.”

  Nicolas nodded. Lacombe turned slightly so that Nicolas could see the hostage he had. Nicolas’ eyes went wide with shock. Lacombe laughed with sinister menace.

  “Exactly, Monsieur. I could have killed you, you know, but I wanted you to see this. Perhaps you’re wondering why she’s so compliant? It’s because I warned her that one peep, one word, one sound, and I’d give you a new and permanent smile…a little lower down,” the false officer said, pressing the knife into Nicolas’ neck, enjoying the torment he was putting both Nicolas and Sérolène through and the absolut
e power he had over them both.

  “What will you do, Monsieur, knowing that I’ll have her first? Will it drive you mad to think of my hands on her soft skin, enjoying all that sweet loveliness while you rot in despair, knowing you helped to give her to me? Tell me, will you put a pistol to your head to ease your pain? But even if you blow out your brains, she’ll still be alive and mine!” Lacombe hissed, his lips pressed close to Nicolas’ ear.

  The rage building inside Nicolas was so twisted and dark he could scarcely contain it. Lacombe felt it in the sudden tensing of his captive’s muscles. He pressed the knife tightly against Nicolas’ neck as a warning. A thin line of blood slowly appeared against Nicolas’ throat where the sharp edge pierced the skin.

  “Please, Monsieur! Don’t hurt him! I beg you. I’ll do anything you ask, but don’t harm him!” Sérolène whispered in fear. Nicolas’ eyes turned again toward Sérolène, seeing that hers were full of desperation, and tears.