Fires of Delight

by Vanessa Royall

  “There is no need, even now, to be uncivil,” Royce said coolly. “Sir, I know nothing of what you speak. I assure you—”

  “And you be quiet as well! You will have ample opportunity to vent your thoughts before you die.”

  Selena knew that he meant it. Jean intended to kill them both.

  “Jean,” she implored, meeting his eyes, her heart overcome by the pain she saw in them, by knowledge that she had caused that pain. “Jean, Royce is telling the truth. He didn’t…he doesn’t…know anything about us.”

  “As soon as I leave you alone,” he accused her, “just as soon as you are out of my sigh—”

  In spite of the circumstances, Selena’s anger flared. “Yes, that’s right,” she shot back. “Yes, it is my fault, isn’t it? You go off to sea with your evil dream of revenge, and leave me alone with child—”

  “There are quite a few things I don’t know,” Royce said, looking at Selena.

  “It’s true,” she said. She told him about the baby, the miscarriage, and about Chamorro.

  “I killed him too,” said Jean bitterly. “I cured his head and nose and ears and private parts in brine, and brought them back here to Paris, just as I said I would. I meant to throw them at the palace gate, so the King might know what befalls the scum who revere him. But one cannot even get near the palace these days, so I dropped them into the Seine instead. Perhaps I shall do the same with both of you.”

  “Jean,” said Selena, trying again, “if it is revenge that you must have, then kill me. Royce is innocent of this—”

  “No,” cried Jean Beaumain, gripping the weapon. “You shall first watch him die! Then you may know how it feels to lose a—” He broke off, choking back sobs. “Oh, God, Selena, I loved you so much…”

  “And I did love you, Jean. Truly I did—”

  “Shut up!”

  She saw him brace and steady himself. She thought the sword would flash now.

  “Just one moment,” said Royce, obviously thinking too that the moment to strike had arrived. “You said I’d have a chance to speak.”

  Jean glared at him. “What have you got to say?”

  “There is one thing that puzzles me. It is not that Selena did not tell me about your…relationship with her. That, while unwise, is explainable by the nature of emotions. And it is not that she loved you, which I am sure is true. She is not one to deceive about such a thing. No, my question is: How did my name come to be on that grave marker? I was there myself when we buried my men on La Tortue. We carved only the initials of the men’s names on those crosses, so as not to provide any curious British with surnames. A man like Clay Oakley, for example, would have gone back to England and begun hounding families with those names…”

  Jean was staring at the two of them, his eyes going from Royce to Selena and back to Royce again. Selena, who’d known him intimately, saw in his expression, in spite of his barely contained rage, a flicker of shame and chagrin.

  “Selena believed I was dead because she saw my name on a cross,” Royce continued logically, “and…”

  “And because an island woman told me she had seen you dead…” Selena added.

  “…therefore…” said Royce.

  Jean Beaumain cut them both off. “All right!” he cried. “Stop talking. I can’t stand to hear it. I carved your name on that cross! I bribed the woman to tell Selena her tale! You see, I knew she’d never let herself love me if she thought you were still alive—”

  He was looking at Royce, as if imploring him to understand.

  “—and I had to have you because I loved you so much…”

  He turned toward Selena, beseeching her to understand.

  Royce Campbell made his move. While Jean was speaking to Selena, he sprang from the bed and crashed headlong into the troubled sailor, grappling for the sword. Jean, knocked off balance by the assault, managed to get one arm around Royce’s neck. They fell to the floor, kicking and writhing. Jean still held the blade.

  “Selena,” gritted Royce. “The wardrobe. My pistol.”

  Selena ran to the clothes cabinet and looked frantically about. Pistol? Where? In the pocket of one of his coats? She began to search, her hands shaking like leaves in high wind. One coat. Another. Nothing…

  Jean, fighting like the wounded, desperate man he was, unconcerned about death and with nothing to lose, gathered his strength and threw Royce off him. The two men scrambled to their feet.

  “In the boot, Selena…” gasped Royce.

  Jean Beaumain slashed at him with the glittering sword. Royce dodged, tripped, and fell again. Jean lifted the blade.

  Selena bent to a pair of boots on the wardrobe floor. She reached inside one of them and her fingers closed around a piece of cold steel.

  Using both hands, Jean Beaumain drove the sword downward, through Royce’s left hand, which he’d raised in a futile attempt to ward off the thrust, and into his abdomen.

  Selena pulled the pistol from the boot and turned.

  Royce lay curled and bloody on the floor. He tried to rise, to stop Jean, who now charged toward Selena. He tried to rise, but fell back, gasping in agony as the full pain hit him.

  Jean was charging at Selena, drawing back the sword, death in his eyes, tears on his face.

  For the shred of a second, Selena froze. Her heart felt as dead as Jean’s eyes looked. It was like seeing a once-familiar friend gone completely mad.

  He started to swing the blade. She heard the sound of it cutting the air.

  She raised the pistol, and fired.

  A small, red crater erupted in the center of Jean’s forehead. His momentum carried him forward, past her, then he fell heavily onto the wardrobe’s floor. The sword clattered down beside him.

  She knew that he was dead.

  The report of the pistol reverberated all about the room like a miniature thunderclap. It seemed impossible that such a small weapon could produce a sound so shattering. The ensuing silence was broken by the clatter of footsteps on the stairs, coming up toward the door. Royce lay helpless on the floor, his shirt and breeches soaked with blood. His eyes were dazed. He was passing into shock.

  Then came a banging at the door. “You all right in there?” A male voice. “I say, are you all right?”

  Royce managed to nod, instructing her to speak.

  “Oh, yes,” she called sweetly. “Thank you. Everything’s fine. I just…I just managed to knock over a…a chair. Silly me.”

  A doubting silence was evident on the other side of the door. “You sure you’re all right?”

  “Oh, yes. Completely. Thank you.”

  Another pause, and she heard the footfalls going down the stairs. The outer door swung shut at street level. That particular problem was over, for the time being, but it was the least of the burdens Selena faced now.

  Jean Beaumain was dead, his body lying there in the wardrobe.

  She could not even take the time to mourn him.

  Royce Campbell seemed to be bleeding to death on the floor. He’d lost shocking amounts of blood, and it continued to seep slowly from his wounds, onto his clothing, and thence upon the floor.

  She rushed over and knelt beside him, stripping away the shirt and breeches. The wound in his hand was bad enough; it was the wide, angry slit in his lower abdomen that really troubled her. Jean’s blade had plunged deeply, and if it had sliced into a section of Royce’s intestines, irreversible poisoning would already have commenced. The only thing she could do now was to try to bind the wound, stop the flow of blood.

  Incredibly, Royce was still conscious. “Selena,” he said, his lips dry and his breathing heavy, “elevate my feet. Don’t try to move me. Get some towels and press down on the wound.”

  She did these things, trying not to hurt him further. Blood soaked into the towels.

  “It’s not every day,” he said, “that a woman loses two lovers.”

  “Hush. You just be quiet.”

  “No. What happens will happen. You must leave me no
w.”

  “Leave you? Are you out of your mind?”

  “No, Selena. There are things more important than you and I. And because I cannot see to them, you must.”

  “Would you just stop talking!” The flow of blood seemed to be slowing a little, and she began to nurse a tiny fragment of hope.

  “Darling, you must go and find Pierre Sorbante. Tell him the King is planning to flee. Tell him to try to get word to His Majesty that flight would be folly.”

  “Darling, I know how you must feel about the King who made you a vicomte, but—”

  “Selena, you don’t understand. I am in favor of the revolution. I always have been. I posed as a Royalist only to learn what the King and his minions were up to. I am a spy.”

  Selena looked at him in absolute bewilderment.

  “You know those jewels, Selena? They were given by women in America to support Sorbante and his revolutionaries. Erasmus Ward was to have taken them to France. The cross around your neck was to be the sign by which Sorbante recognized the person carrying the treasure. After Ward was killed, it was I who was chosen to make the journey…”

  Suddenly, everything was clear, all the pieces of the great puzzle fell into place.

  “Oh, darling,” she said, “if I’d only known—”

  “I couldn’t tell you. Things didn’t go as planned. We were separated…”

  He seemed to fall momentarily into a faint, then roused himself. “You must go to Sorbante now, Selena. He must be informed that the King is going to attempt foreign exile.”

  “I can’t leave you here.”

  “You won’t be leaving me alone. Not really. Where you go, I am. It will always be thus. The cause for which we struggle, human freedom, is far more important than you or I.”

  Now Selena knew how terribly mistaken she had been. Not only had Royce remained true to their shared ideals, at great danger to himself, he had moreover sought to protect her by keeping her innocent of his activities.

  “God, I’m so thirsty,” he panted. “Perhaps a bit of water…”

  But Selena knew, as did he, that in the case of abdominal wounds, all ingestion was proscribed. If his bowels had indeed been cut by the blade, leakage of fluid would already be enough to cause peritonitis. The only hope for his life was that, somehow, Jean’s sword had missed his vitals. The bleeding seemed to be under control now, and she ripped apart lengths of sheeting to bandage his torso and also his hand. He had been weakened tremendously by loss of blood, and he passed out as she finished wrapping his wounds.

  “Oh, Lord, oh, Lord…” she prayed. “I must find Sorbante. He will know what to do. He will help me with Royce, and somehow we must get Jean’s body out of here.”

  The only thing she could think of was to cover Jean with a blanket, touching his cheek in gentle farewell as she did so. If only he’d not come here like this, if only they’d been able to talk…

  Too late now. Once again, she was on her own, the servant of a cause greater than she. If Royce was correct about the bloodlust of Robespierre, only Pierre Sorbante could keep the revolution on an even keel. So many wonderful reforms had been enacted. It would be disastrous—it would be sinful—to have everything ruined now.

  Before leaving, she went over and knelt beside Royce again, making sure that he was thoroughly bundled and tucked. His eyes flickered open. At first, she did not know if this was merely a reflex or if he was actually conscious.

  “Darling,” she said. “Darling! How do I find Sorbante?”

  Royce stared at her, as if he were a long way from her, and she an apparition out of a dream. “Perhaps…perhaps in the palace crowd…” he whispered through cracked lips.

  It was all Selena had to go on, so she left his apartment, walking as calmly as she could. A couple of men standing on the street corner stared at her.

  “Sounded like a gunshot up there,” one of them said, eyeing her suspiciously.

  “No, no,” Selena smiled, “just a chair. I’m rather clumsy sometimes.”

  “Never guess it judging from the rhythm of the bedsprings that I keep hearing,” the fellow observed sotto voce to his mates as Selena walked away from them.

  Please, God, don’t let them go up and look around, she prayed.

  It was almost noon by the time Selena reached the palace. The crowd outside the gate was sparser today, as if the novelty of holding a King captive had begun to pall for everyone. She walked all around the great building, searching faces for a glimpse of Sorbante, without success. If he is not here himself, he must have compatriots present, though, mustn’t he? They would be watching for any sign that Louis XVI might try to flee.

  What if she could not locate Sorbante? Not only would he remain uninformed about the monarch’s scheme, he also could not be called upon to help her with the mess back at Royce’s apartment. I should have ignored Royce’s instructions and gone for a doctor instead, she thought. I’ll do it now.

  But she took a final swing right past the main gate, looking for the political leader. It was a fateful decision on her part. The sergeant of the Guard, who had admitted her yesterday, recognized Selena immediately and grabbed her arm, pulling her inside the gate.

  “So here you are again, citizen,” he said sarcastically.

  “Let me go!” she cried. “I’ve done nothing. Let me go!”

  The onlookers, many of whom recognized her too, were unsympathetic. “There’s the bitch who went in yesterday!” someone said. “What’s the matter, cherie? Tired of hobnobbing with the swells?”

  Laughter.

  “Serves you right,” another called, as the guard propelled Selena into the palace. “Turncoats are always found out.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” Selena demanded, but the sergeant paid her no mind. His hand was tight on her arm as he rushed her down one corridor, then another, and pushed her into what appeared to be a small office. Startled, she recognized the King and Princess Francesca. Both of them looked strained and weary.

  “Oh, Selena! Thank God!” the girl cried.

  “Here she be, Your Majesty,” said the guard, withdrawing.

  Louis looked at her and sighed. He did not seem much a monarch at all this day, just a harried, overweight man approaching middle age.

  “This is the one?” he asked Francesca. He did not appear to recognize her as his dinner guest such a short while ago.

  “Yes,” said the princess. “Selena, I’m sorry—”

  “Too late for that,” shrugged the King. “Sit down, mademoiselle.”

  Selena obeyed, wondering what was happening.

  “You tell her,” the King ordered his niece.

  Francesca faltered at first, embarrassed and apologetic. “Selena, my friend, it seems I’ve gotten you into a terrible mess. I shouldn’t have told you that our family is going to flee to Germany. I was so concerned about William…I didn’t think—”

  “Have you told anyone?” the King demanded of Selena.

  “What? About what?” she asked, trying to appear innocent and bewildered.

  “Don’t lie,” replied the King wearily. “It does not become you. I have already admonished my niece regarding her loose tongue which, I am afraid, will make it necessary for you to remain here today, and accompany us when we leave after nightfall.”

  “I cannot do that!” protested Selena. “I have responsibilities…” She thought of poor Royce, wounded and perhaps dying. It occurred to her that she might tell His Majesty that Vicomte Campbell needed aid. But what if the King had already learned of Royce’s complicity in the revolution? There was no way of determining how fast things were happening and what information the King had at his disposal. No, it would not be wise to connect herself with Royce. She would have to fashion a plan to get out of here and go for a doctor.

  “We all have responsibilities,” said Louis. “Mine is to the survival of royalist France, and to my family. That is why we must flee. You, who know of our plan, might jeopardize everything—”

 
; “I wouldn’t say a word. I promise!”

  Louis laughed. “Too late,” he said.

  Francesca sat there looking helpless and mournful. “I’m sorry,” she bleated.

  “I can’t go with you,” Selena tried. “Just hold me here. Imprison me, if you must. But please, release me—order me released, that is—after you’ve reached safety.”

  “What if the rabble learn of our departure?” countered His Majesty. “What if they learn of it before we reach safety in Germany? They might break into the Tuileries and learn from you the direction and destination of our flight. It is a long way to the border, you know. No, you are coming with us. You are too dangerous to leave behind.”

  Further protests were useless. The King clapped his hands. Two guards appeared and escorted Selena and Francesca to the princess’s bedchamber, where they were to spend the afternoon.

  “I’m so sorry,” Francesca said, over and over. “This is all terribly sad.”

  “You don’t know how much so,” replied Selena. Then she had an idea.

  “Your Highness,” Selena said, as they tried on peasant disguises that had been brought for them to wear during the flight. “I must ask a great favor of you.”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “It must be done secretly, however.”

  “If you tell me what it is, I may then judge.”

  Selena knew the princess was, like most young girls, a romantic, in love with love. “My man,” she said, “my lover, lies ill at his lodgings in the Rue St. Denis.” She did not say how “ill” Royce was. “He requires the care of a good physician. Now, I do not wish to jeopardize the safety of you and your kin by revealing the fact that I am with you, or that I shall not be able to return to him tonight, but do you think that you might arrange for a doctor to go to him? That is all I ask.”

  The princess, instantly intrigued by the situation, agreed. She left the bedchamber and at length returned.

  “I have seen to it,” she said.

  22

  A Fateful Lunch

  The plan was set in motion just after dark.

  The Tuileries, like all the royal palaces, was staffed with hundreds of servants. God forbid that one of royal blood should lift a finger in his or her own behalf. Members of the permanent household staff resided in the palace itself, but many more worked only during the day and returned at night to their own lodgings. This state of affairs made possible the departure of the royal fugitives—Selena among them—from the palace.