Passion and Pride (A Historical Romance) (30 page)

It was shortly after ten o’clock in the morning when she watched the first man die.

He was a Swiss Guard in a red coat, probably no older than herself. He darted up the street, abject terror in his face as he ran for his life.

A mob of men chased him down and beat him with clubs and stabbed him with knives, over and over and over.

Marian recoiled from the window in horror.

When she came back, the young man was dead.

At first she could not believe it. It was all a cruel joke, a play – nothing more.

Then she felt anger – at the young man. Surely he had done something to deserve it! They could not have killed him for no reason… surely they would not have done that…

Then the second man died in the street, another Swiss Guard, in exactly the same way.

He cried and begged for his life.

The mob descended on him like wolves.

All the words of the philosophers fell away like so many pretty baubles from a blazing Christmas tree.

She shook her head and cried hysterically.

The Declaration of the Rights of Man was not supposed to end with a boy lying broken and dead in the street.

When the mob set upon the third Guard, she could stand it not longer.

She flung open the windows and screamed at them, “Pity! For God’s sake, have pity upon him!”

They pointed up at her and cursed her, screaming, “
Royaliste!
Off with her head!”

One of them had a musket, and he aimed it up at her window.

She withdrew back into her apartment in terror and ran to her writing desk.

In the second drawer she found the silver knife, still in its sheath of lambskin. She had kept it, oftentimes looking at it in moments of weakness, relying on it for strength. The one token of love and protection from the last man – the only man – she had ever loved.

She pulled out the knife and waited in terror for the mob to ascend the staircase. They might try to drag her out in the street to die, but at least she would give them a fight.

They never came.

Perhaps they had too many guardsmen to kill today to bother with her.

She continued to watch as the streets swarmed with bloodthirsty men, and bodies piled up in the gutters.

The entire time she prayed that Blake might come and save her.

She felt ashamed on some level. She felt as though she should be able to take care of herself. She told herself she was a strong, modern woman; she was independent; she needed no man, least of all the one who had spurned her and broken her heart.

But she knew deep down that he loved her.

And she knew that he would give his life for hers. Of that she was certain.

She didn’t want that; all she wanted was to hold him in her arms again, and to have him take her away from all these horrors. She only wanted to return to the night before, when he still lay in her arms, both of them spent and peaceful, his head against her breast…

But he never came.

She worried herself sick, wondering if he had been killed, or wounded, or prevented in some other way from saving her.

Then the doubts began. Perhaps he had run from the city; perhaps he had not come back for her because she had rejected him the night before.

She did not want to believe those things… but it was so hard not to.

Night fell. The killings stopped, but that was probably because there were no more Guardsmen left to murder. She hovered at the window, praying that it might all be over… that the bloodshed would stop, that the clock could be turned back, that the France she loved the night before could be returned to her.

A soldier walked through the street shouting, “Ten o’clock curfew! House-to-house searches shall begin after that!
Vive la Nation!”

At half after ten, there was a loud knocking at her door.

She did not have anything to fear, but her heart skipped a beat.

Part of her wished that she
did
have something to hide. That she
had
saved a life, that she
had
hidden someone. She wished that she could have saved someone, the same way she longed to be saved.

In her bedroom, she smoothed down her clothes and made herself as presentable as she could for the soldiers.

She walked into the main room of the apartment and saw her maid – and behind her, Blake.

Marian burst into tears and ran into his arms.

Lt. Villars was having an excellent day.

His men had joined forces with the rioters at the Tuileries earlier that morning, as had most of the National Guard. A fellow lieutenant had told Villars that as the King was inspecting the four thousand men ordered to protect the palace, thousands deserted right there on the spot! Villars wished he could have been there to see the look of surprise on the fat bastard’s face!

Of course, almost immediately afterward, the King had fled with his bitch and his whelps to the Assembly. Louis hadn’t bothered to alert the Swiss Guards to stand down, though – and they paid dearly for the King’s oversight. Three hundred dead in the palace itself, and hundreds more slaughtered in the street as they fled.

Villars had cornered one of the Swiss Guards in a bedroom, a man he knew and despised. And owed money to, incidentally.

The redcoat spat in Villars’ face and called him a traitor.

To return the favor, Villars ran him through with his sword.

Idiot. The aristocracy cared nothing for the soldiers, less than nothing for the common man. Louis’ willingness to let the Swiss Guard be massacred while he himself fled was proof of that. Oh, the King had supposedly ordered a ceasefire; pity he didn’t think to do it before the killing actually began.

It was a long, glorious day for the Revolution. Villars had personally killed three men, and his regiment had dispatched another seven.

Now the clock had struck ten o’clock, the curfew had fallen, and the house-to-house searches had begun. They would soon find the rest of the Swiss Guard, as well as the missing Monsieur Chansenets, the governor of the Tuileries who had somehow escaped.

And then they would arrest them.

A pity they could not kill them on the spot, as they had earlier in the day.

Villars looked on approvingly as his men ransacked the house of the Vicomte de Noilles, a pompous little ass who watched with a combination of terror and indignation. Villars doubted the Vicomte would harbor any of the Swiss Guard – the aristocrat was much too selfish to stick his neck out for a fellow nobleman, much less a nobody – but Villars hoped he was wrong. It would be such a joy to march the little aristo down to jail. He might even get the pleasure of personally escorting him up the scaffold.

Of course, if it were up to Villars, the Vicomte would be guillotined for simply being an aristocrat. No other justification was needed beyond that, in his opinion.

One day, little man,
Villars thought.
One day, your time will come.

“Lieutenant, this man is asking for you,” one of Villars’ soldiers said.

Villars looked over to see Baffert, the ragged little tramp he had paid to follow the Englishman.

For an instant, all Villars’ joy disappeared as he remembered what he had witnessed the evening before: the vile foreigner walking out, his clothes all disarrayed…

The light in his beloved Marian’s window going out…

Villars dismissed the soldier and pulled Baffert aside. “So, Citizen, do you have good news for me?”

Baffert nodded his head and scratched his beard. “I saw the Englishman escort a man and his family through a crack in the wall on the other side of the Seine. Down by the Invalides, right by the Military School.”

Villars’ hand went automatically to his sword as rage poured through him.

Gone?! Gone, and I could have had him killed?!

The little scamp must have seen the murderous look in Villars’ eyes, because he shrank back in terror. “Now he’s gone back to the building we were at last night. That’s when I came to get you.”

The rage disappeared, replaced by a savage hope.

“He’s there?! Now?!”

The bearded man nodded.

Villars grinned. “Excellent, my friend. You have outdone yourself. Now give me the paper.”

The bearded man handed over the folded paper. Villars inspected it to make sure the beggar had not switched it out:

By the order of Lieutenant Gerard Villars of the National Guard of Paris,

Allow the bearer of this notice to pass any military barrier or checkpoint undisturbed, as he is acting in the service of the National Guard and on behalf of the Revolution.

The handwriting was Villars’ and the official seal was beneath. The beggar had not tried to substitute a copy, which would have been worth its weight in gold right now to a Swiss Guardsman.

Villars folded the paper up again and pocketed it in his jacket. “Excellent, Citizen,” he said, and put a smattering of coins in Baffert’s hand before turning away.

“Lieutenant…” the ragged man said timidly.

“What?” Villars snapped.

“This is only twenty sous… I followed him all day and night, I did not sleep – ”

Villars stepped within inches of the beggar, who shrank back in fright. “Are you aware, Citizen, of what occurred today?”

“Y-yes, Lieutenant – ”

“Do you know how many good citizens were wounded today? Do you know how many
died
today in service of the Revolution?”

“I – I am sure many, Lieutenant – ”

Villars’ hand went to the grip of his sword. Baffert did not fail to notice this, and shriveled even further.

“Do you know how many would have been delighted to receive twenty sous and escape with their lives?”

Baffert trembled but made no answer.

“I think you have been well paid, Citizen,” Villars snarled.

“Yes, Lieutenant… my mistake, my mistake,” the little tramp moaned.

“Get out of here. You disgust me.”

Baffert bowed and scraped, then scampered out the door like a frightened rabbit.

Villars turned back to his men. “Attention!”

The soldiers stopped what they were doing and faced their officer.

“Fall in. We’re finished here, but we have a new destination…”

“Are you all right?” Evan asked, alarmed, as he held her in his arms.

“Yes,” Marian said through her tears. “It’s just… it’s horrible!”

“Do you believe me now?”

She pulled away, her face angry. “Is this really the time for ‘I told you so’s’?”

He didn’t mean to, but stress and fear got the best of him. “I think it’s the perfect time.”

She untangled herself from his arms and stepped away. “If that’s your attitude – ”

“Damn it, woman, I’ve risked my life coming back for you!”

“And put
me
at risk, I’m sure!” she shouted.

“More than you know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I am almost positive I was followed. By whom I do not know, but I doubt it was a friend.”

“From where?”

“The other side of the Seine. There is a break in the wall around the city. I got Dardanelle and his family out of Paris.”

“You… you saved them?”

“Yes. And I’ve come back for you.” He took her hands and stared into her eyes. “I just need to make sure you’re coming with me.”

She trembled. “Do you know what you’re asking me to give up?”

“Yes,” he snapped, “a world gone mad. A country that murders its citizens. I saw it out in the streets, three dozen times over.”

She thought back to the Swiss Guards, their terrified eyes as they died at the hands of the mob…

“All right. Let me pack a few things.”

“Money and things that will arouse no suspicion, nothing more.”

Marian nodded, then turned to her maid, who had been listening to the whole exchange with a terrified look. “Francoise, I must leave… I will give you money for the rest of the year, but you must not tell anyone where I went or with whom, do you understand?”

The middle-aged woman nodded in terror.

“Please, go and pack us something to eat,” Marian asked.

“Bread and water, and only what can be tied together in a small cloth,” Evan called after her.

Marian hurried to her bedroom, and Evan followed after her.

“Do you have anything simple, something that will allow you to blend in?” Evan asked.

“With the rabble, you mean?” Marian asked sarcastically.

“With the people who will kill you if you wear something that smacks of wealth and privilege,” he snapped.

She looked back at him and grew pale. “Are you serious?”

“I wish to God I were not.”

She thought and nodded. “I can ask for some of Francoise’s things – she is close to my size.”

“Then hurry. For God’s sake, hurry.”

Marian disappeared, and Evan began to watch the street from next to the curtain. Marian returned after a minute carrying a simple grey dress. She laid it on her bed in the alcove and began to remove the more sumptuous clothes she wore.

When she was down to her shift, Evan glanced over. “Very nice,” her murmured.

“Only a man would think of such things at a time like this,” she scoffed.

“Only when the woman is you.”

In spite of herself, she blushed the tiniest bit.

Out in the street came the
clomp clomp clomp
of boots on the cobblestones.

Marian froze.

“Damn it,” Evan whispered. He turned to her. “I’ll leave – I’ll get out of here – ”

“There’s no time! Why are we even afraid? You have done nothing – ”

“I was followed, remember? I helped a family escape Paris! Villars was ready to guillotine me for concealing my relationship with you – what do you think he will do if he knows I have defied a direct order and helped a Royalist escape the city?”

“We have to hide you – ”

“Is there an attic?”

“No – at least, I don’t have access to it – ”

Evan looked wildly around the room. “Under the bed?”

“It will be the first place they look!” Marian looked at the bed nestled in the alcove. “Unless… unless we could put you
inside
the bed…”