Love's First Light (37 page)
Scarlett did not miss the glared warning the commander gave the man.
If she wasn’t so terrified of what might come next, Scarlett would have allowed the bubble of hysterical laughter to escape her throat. Instead, she held on to the horse’s mane with one hand and André with the other, and prayed she wouldn’t fall off. As they started back down the road to Paris, the man behind her asked, “When was the last time the poor little fellow ate something?”
Scarlett looked up over her shoulder. The man looked to be in his early thirties. He had short-cropped, dark hair, hazel-green eyes, a square chin and dimples when he smiled. Well, he hadn’t exactly smiled, but she could tell he would have dimples if and when he did. She pressed her lips together. “I’ll not feed him now. On a horse, with you looking down over my shoulder.”
“Suit yourself. I just thought it would make for a quieter ride.” There was underlying laughter in his voice.
“It hasn’t been that long. He will not starve.” Suddenly she frowned and looked back at him. “You sound as if you know something about children. Do you have children?”
“Three. My wife died some time ago. I am raising them alone.” He shrugged and grinned down at her. “As you can imagine, I have had some experience with babies.”
“Where are they now?”
“Tucked away at home. My sister keeps them when I am away.”
“What is your name? Perhaps we’ve met.” Scarlett needed to know if this man knew or could easily discover her relation to Robespierre.
“No. We haven’t met before. I would have remembered that. My name is Antoine Laroche. But what of you? Who is the father of this squalling babe?”
Scarlett remembered their fake passports and the story they’d all memorized. “My name is Scarlett Burlier.” She gestured back to Christophé, who was working hard to keep up with the horse and them. “That man is my husband.” She looked up at the man behind her, hoping her face wouldn’t betray her. “He is a great scientist. His mind is . . . a natural phenomenon.”
Antoine cast a brief glance back at Christophé. “Were you really going to London for science? No one thinks of those things anymore.”
“Do you think so?” Scarlett dimpled. “Well, there is one other reason.” She pointed toward Stacia. “My sister is unmarried and looking for a husband. She hasn’t had any luck in Paris, so we thought to look in London.”
“Doesn’t she like French men?”
“Of course! But French men are only enamored of the Révolution. Few seem to care about love these days.”
“There are some who care about family and love.”
“Really?” Scarlett let her eyes widen. “And might you be one of those men?”
“I might be.” He cast a long glance at Stacia, and Scarlett felt a spark of hope.
“Perhaps I should introduce you.” It certainly couldn’t hurt their cause to have this man interested in her sister.
“Perhaps you should.” He smiled, showing perfect white teeth and looked down at Scarlett.
He did, indeed, have very nice dimples.
“Tell me of the arrest you spoke of. I know so little of politics, but I have, of course, heard of the famed Robespierre.”
“His time as ruler is over.” There was satisfaction in Antoine’s voice. “He will be taken where he has sent so many others.”
“Where is that?” Scarlett knew, but needed to hear the answer.
“To the guillotine.”
THE LEADERS OF the Convention stared at the carnage in the room.
At one time they were a united force, building a new government, a new country. Now four men, those who’d chosen to follow Robespierre, lay on the floor, bleeding horribly. Two had escaped through the windows, so they would have to search for them to see if they were still alive. One man sat in a chair, his eyes wide with horror.
Robespierre didn’t know how it could have happened. He was still alive. The bullet that was aimed for his brain had turned somehow, maybe a jerk of the pistol as these men burst through the door. He couldn’t think. He didn’t know anything except unfathomable pain.
His jaw was shattered, blood spurted from his chin to drip in a long line down his neck. He couldn’t talk, couldn’t swallow, he could barely breathe as pain and panic washed over him in waves of unremitting fear.
The men surrounded them and took stock, lifting the maimed from the floor. Saint-Just stood to one side, the only one of them uninjured, still pristine in his gray breeches, white shirt, and waistcoat. The
Angel of Death,
they called him. He alone stood perfect as if, indeed, he possessed otherworldly powers.
Angel of Death,
they called him. He alone stood perfect as if, indeed, he possessed otherworldly powers.
Robespierre was heaved up and carried by his wrists and ankles to a table where they laid him. Time made no sense as he lay, in and out of consciousness, for what seemed like hours. At one point, he thought a face bent over him and mockingly commented, “There
is
a God.”
is
a God.”
As the morning sun slanted through the tall windows, two surgeons came in and bent over him. They mumbled between themselves and then one took up a long, thick needle. One of them cleaned his face then opened his mouth and yanked out the loose teeth. Robespierre groaned with the agony as they held his mouth open and began to dig for the lodged bullet in his jaw. Why they would bandage him up only to cut off his head, he didn’t know. For the first time, he thought of all the men and women he had personally sent to the guillotine, what their last moments might have been like.
His body shook uncontrollably while they did their work. He couldn’t look at them and he couldn’t close his eyes, so he only looked up and stared as hard as he could at the plaster ceiling of the room. Finally he heard the bullet drop into a metal cup. Fresh blood gushed down his face, which the surgeon staunched with wads of linen. His entire skull felt ready to burst as they wrapped strips of bandages around his head, from under his chin to the top of his head, to hold the jaw in place.
He couldn’t talk.
His voice, that which had been the phoenix of his life, was ruined. There would be no hope of salvation now. If only they had let him speak! It was the only thing his father had given him. Oh, if only they had let him speak.
It was his last thought as he fell back into unconsciousness.
THEIR PARTY OF soldiers, prisoners, and suspects turned onto the Rue Saint-Honoré. Scarlett had dozed off and came awake with a jerk, realizing that she was leaning against Antoine’s broad chest. He pointed ahead of them. “Look.”
Scarlett stared at the masses of people running to fill the street. She straightened in her seat, peering ahead. “What is happening?”
“Do you see the carts up ahead?”
She nodded, swallowing hard, recognizing a familiar light-blue coat. They were taking a group to the guillotine.
“Who is it?” She asked, but she knew.
“Listen to the crowd.”
“Death to the king!” A woman near them shouted, her face a mask of hate. “Death to Robespierre!”
More insults were being shouted by everyone around them. The crowd was growing moblike with wild-eyed faces and rage-screaming voices. It seemed the whole world was aflame with hatred. Scarlett turned back and looked for Christophé. He was right behind them, looking exhausted but intense. Their eyes met. He pressed his lips together and motioned his head toward her.
“Let me down!”
“It’s not safe. You could be trampled.”
Scarlett ground her teeth. She wouldn’t care about being trampled if she didn’t have André. She wanted to be with Christophé! Looking over to Stacia, she shouted. “Will you take André?”
Stacia nodded, wide-eyed, looking afraid to do much of anything. Scarlett turned to look at Antoine. “I must walk this part with my husband. Please, take Stacia. I know she will keep André safe.”
He looked at her for a long moment and then agreed with a signal of his hand. He stopped their troop and waited while Stacia and Scarlett dismounted. “It’s not the right time, my dearest. But—” she gestured with a hand toward Antoine—“he is a good man. I have a good feeling about him.”
Stacia’s eyes grew wide. “You must be insa—”
“I know.” Scarlett pressed a kiss upon Stacia’s cheek. “Don’t let anything happen to André.”
Stacia approached the man’s horse. Antoine had dismounted and offered Stacia his hand. Scarlett watched as Stacia reached for it, grasped it, and then took a sudden bright breath as the tall man hefted her up without any of Stacia’s aid, to land perfectly in the saddle. Stacia settled herself as Antoine climbed up behind her. Scarlett handed up the baby and watched while Stacia placed him into the sling.
Émilie had dismounted and took up Christophé’s other side.
Scarlett turned to Christophé, grasped his face between her hands, and leaned up to kiss him. She knew not what might happen next. All they had was their combined breaths, their skin touching, their lips pressing.
Christophé broke free first. “How are you? Are you still bleeding?”
Scarlett grasped his hand and turned toward the square, where the guillotine sat like a giant bloody statue. “No. The rest did me good.”
They pushed their way through the throng of cheering, shouting people.
She stopped toward the front and saw them. Carts, one with four men, one with six. Her gaze locked onto Robespierre. His clothes were torn. The blue coat that he loved so much was ripped and dirty. His stockings were around his ankles as he climbed out of the cart and stood with four other men. They all looked terrible, their faces, their dissembled clothing, all except one, Saint-Just. The Angel of Death looked exactly as he always had.
Scarlett clutched the front of her dress as she watched Robespierre. His face was shattered, bruised and bleeding, swathed in cloth like a mummy. She couldn’t tear her eyes away.
The scaffold stood huge in the mid-afternoon sun. She watched as a crippled man, mumbling and incoherent, was carried up the scaffolding steps to the platform. He was strapped to a board, which took many minutes, as his twisted body couldn’t be pressed flat against it. His body sidewise, they slid him onto the guillotine, positioning him under the blade. Scarlett turned away, clutching Émilie’s hand, leaning on Christophé for support as the sound of the blade whooshed though the air.
A great cheer rose from the crowd.
She swallowed hard as the executioner raised the dead man’s head.
It was a play to them, wasn’t it? Scarlett looked at the manic faces around her. “God, Your creation! Oh, God, what have we done?”
Christophé’s arms encircled her, and she shivered against him.
The next man was led up the steps. Saint-Just. He lifted his head and glared at the screaming crowd, who roared afresh when his young, angelic head was held high in the air.
Robespierre was last.
Scarlett pressed her fist over her mouth as the executioner removed his robin’s-egg blue coat. He tossed it into the crowd. They raised their hands to grasp at the souvenir. Next, he ripped off the bandage around Robespierre’s head. Scarlett could see the jaw fall open, as though unattached. She gasped and pressed her body into Christophé’s. “God, have mercy.”
Émilie stood straight and tall. She didn’t move. Her face didn’t change. Scarlett watched as the young girl disengaged herself from them and walked forward. As though sensing something of import was happening, the crowd in front of them parted. She walked until she was in the very front.
Scarlett looked at Christophé. “What is she doing?”
Christophé looked down, tears in his eyes. “She is telling him that she forgives him.”
Scarlett began to sob quietly into Christophé’s shoulder.
AS ROBESPIERRE WAS strapped to the board that would slide him beneath the blade, he looked one last time into the crowd. These were the people he had fought so hard for. And now, they hated him. There was one face though . . .
One face that didn’t hate him. His gaze locked with that of a young woman.
As the crowd roared their approval of the Master of Terror going to his death, Émilie St. Laurent stared into his eyes. As the insults flew all around him, he held to her sweet, innocent face, her righteous faith in something he, until this moment, had not been able to grasp.
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