“Bah! Lost another hundred livres at
cards. Mon Dieu!” The speaker slammed the door behind him and cast himself,
prostrate, on a chaise lounge nearby.
“I would not swear by that name if
I were you, Jeanclaude. The Committee of Public Safety mightn’t like it. There is no God now, save the Goddess of Reason.” Renaud
Tremaine’s lip curled in disdain for the fool before him. He laughed, the bitter tones
mocking yet challenging the young man before him. Jeanclaude took a lace-edged handkerchief
from his pocket and with great deliberation polished his monocle.
Tremaine fastened his gaze on
Pierre Jeanclaude, inspecting him like a butterfly on a pin. Every detail of
the young man’s person was captured, memorized, and scorned by Renaud’s dark
eyes—eyes that, did they reside under hair a different hue than that of a winter's sun, could
have been called “fine.” Beneath the pale shock of curls, Renaud Tremaine
glared at the world from the brooding depths of his eyes, with the unearthly effect
of lightening and thunder.
Jeanclaude was a fool, just like
every other weak-willed “patriot” in Paris
this summer. Renaud picked at the stitching coming loose on his shirt-cuff and struggled
to keep his passion from flashing forth in an oath and a blow to the face of
the foppish Jeanclaude. But Renaud Tremaine had a reputation to keep up—a reputation as a rising
leader in the Revolution. Cool, polished, debonair, ambitious: these were words
that Renaud taught to cavort around him a dance of popularity. One misplaced
remark, one hint of the passion crouching behind his thunderous eyes, and all
would vanish back into the mist of obscurity he had risen from. Risen, like a
phantom from a grave of disgrace, as his rivals liked to quip. Ah, but that was
all changing. He had Citoyen Marjorie Larrieu on his side. He would not call
her Sweet-Marjoram, as the enamored Parisian youths did. Bah! Sweet! She was a
vixen if ever a woman could be, albeit his cousinship to this self-same
Marjorie. He liked her—ah, of course he liked her. They were cut of the same
cloth, that Marjorie and him. She, with her quaint witticisms and pretty airs,
like a petted peacock; he with his aspirations for power and homage. Neither
had reached their full potential yet. But together, and if no blundering fools
like Jeanclaude came in the way, they could reach a height as of yet unattained
by anyone. Marjorie and Renaud Tremaine, holding the reins of Paris in their collective hands. Feeling the
emotions of the people quivering up the lines, able to turn the country any way with
their supple fingers.
Renaud’s fingers shook and he
clenched his fist to keep them still, casting combined thunder and lightening
at the empty face of Pierre Jeanclaude. No, he had nothing to fear from that
corner, he was certain. Marjorie loved herself too well to stoop to a union
with such a swine. He would woo her and win her, and Paris would be in his hands. A happy thought,
indeed
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