***
Fourth of Brumaire,
Year One of the French Republic
“It is hardly an
unknown fact that you are a coquin,—a
rogue—Desquette.” The young speaker tossed back her long curls with an
impatient hand and smiled at Desquette. “There is no need to pretend you are
virtuous.” A general murmur of laughter warmed through the crowd gathered
around the young lady as she stood at the mantel, one hand poised on the shelf,
toying with a miniature of some long-guillotined aristocrat.
“If we haven’t
virtue, have we anything?” This question from a woman of mature countenance
sitting somewhat to the side—her eyes obscured by shadow, her mouth a thread of
scarlet.
“La, Citoyenne—virtue is outdated. A whim of
the aristos. Pray, do not speak of
virtue here.” The young lady’s lips curved in a haughty smile and her cheek
dimpled. “Desquette wants nothing to do with virtue—‘twould spoil all his fun,
and he’s vowed to live for nothing else. We cannot afford to have him die just
yet.”
Another general
laugh, and the coquin, Desquette,
rose from the red chaise-lounge and came to the girl’s side. In his hand he
held a slender glass filled with pilfered wine; this he raised and commanded
the room’s attention. “Are we to allow Citoyenne
Corinne Garnier the pleasure of handing out all the bon mots?” The young man gestured to the girl and winked. “I think
not. Some of us still have able enough tongues in our heads. Corinne, my love,
your regime is up—sit you down and let another guillotine our wit.”
“Gladly would I
lay my office aside if I was sure another could perform it as well as I,”
Corinne said with a curtsy. “But there are precious few executioners the job
could be trusted to. You are so
stiff-necked.” She curtsied again, her dove-colored gown brushing the floor, took
the glass of wine from Desquette’s hand, and wandered to the back of the long
room.
“I suppose you
know you are clever, Corinne?” The smooth voice at her elbow no more startled
than displeased her.
She turned with
a smile and put her hand into that of the tall, slender fellow who lounged
against a pillar. “Renaud!—you are late again.”
“I arrive at
precisely the right time.”
“By whose reckoning?”
“My own.”
Corinne removed
her hand and fingered the silk rose at her waist. “That is where you make a
grave miscalculation—everyone at Les
Salon Des Patriotes knows I am queen and my word is law.” She pressed her
lips together and watched the quick play of thunder in Renaud Tremaine’s eyes.
And what if she had misspoken and called herself a queen? Sure and she was
vexed at the slip, but worse things had happened and Renaud could never accuse
her of sympathy with the aristos.
“Renaud, for heaven’s sake. Would you send me to the guillotine for a remark
like that? Bah. What a fool you are.” She shrugged and the air in the
parlor—away as they were from the fireside—wrapped clammy fingers around her
bare shoulders. From the velvet-swaddled windows came the sound of a small hard
rain. It scratched with the nails of a hundred tiny rodents, and Corinne was
glad of a sudden for the warm, cloistered salon on the Rue de Faubourg Saint-Honoré.
A fine apartment it was, she admitted, though it had belonged to some of the
bloody aristos they hated so well.
Renaud had once held scruples against living in the same rooms and breathing
the same air as a traitor. But even he now appeared perfectly comfortable as he
leaned against the pillar, eyes closed and arms crossed. He always had been
exacting in the extent of his patriotic tastes. Corinne sighed. “Would you be
better pleased if I told you I was the Robespierre of this parlor?” If she had
meant the question as sarcasm, her dart missed its mark and dropped, harmless,
on the marble floor.
“Of course I
would rather have you a Robespierre than a Capet.” Renaud’s eyes flickered to
hers in a quick, keen question then fell smoldering beneath his lids again.
“Do you doubt my
faith?” Corinne asked, and this time poured derision in her tone.
Renaud pushed
himself from the pillar and took her hand again. Corinne marked how pale those
supple fingers were—how blond and bright and beautiful her cousin was in that
terrible lightening-fire way he had. No wonder men gathered to him as moths to
a lantern—Nature had marked him as a leader since birth and destined him for
great things. This reckoning of Renaud Tremaine softened Corinne’s heart a bit.
She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it, letting him fondle her hair with
his free hand.
His mouth
tipped. “Do I doubt you? Never I. You are too sensible, too enlightened—too
like myself—to be anything apart from me and my beliefs. But take a care that
you think before you speak. I never say a thing but I’ve thought it over ten
minutes past and gone through it twice and again to be sure it is what I
meant.”
Corinne kissed
his hand again with her soft lips. “You are good to me, Renaud; so kind and
patient when my very presence is irksome to you.” The tone was gentle and
purring, the words humble, but Corinne laughed wickedly within. Renaud knew as
well as she that he could no more exist without her than she without him.
He laughed aloud
and teased audible laughter from her into the cool darkness of the parlor. “You
thought I was angry with you, did you not?” he asked.
What had he
wanted her to think? But Corinne only turned her back to Renaud and tossed a
flutter of slender fingers over her left shoulder. “Angry? With me? By all the
wrongs in the Cahiers, I don’t see why you should be. Don’t give yourself airs
and think that your opinion of me matters a whit.” She paused, half in, half
out of the lamplight, and looked at Renaud, wondering if he believed her—nay,
if she believed herself.
“Where is our
salonnière? Citoyenne Corinne—where have you gone to?”
“They call you,
Citoyenne,” Renaud said. His restless fingers straightened his cravat as his
dark eyes held Corinne’s in an understanding gaze.
“They can
wait—have you anything more to say to me?”
Renaud smiled,
and it seemed to Corinne like sunlight breaking from a thunderhead over the
Champ de Mars. “If you are not going to drink the wine, may I have it?”
Corinne glanced
down at the glass from Desquette and felt swift anger rise in her throat. Why
she was angry she could not tell, only that she was. “Take it, with my pleasure,”
pushing the goblet into Renaud’s hand, “I have no use for Capet-liquor.”
***
Well, how do you like my new child? I am predisposed to love him superfluously.
2 comments:
Aw, I do enjoy snippets. Though they always leave me wanting to read more...
Thank you for sharing!
This one is going to be fantastic, not that any of your other works aren't fantastic. I love the way this is written, Im all excited to read more. Stupendious job, miss Rachel.
Blessings ~ Rachel Hope
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