by Damian Serbu
“What are you doing here?” the man shouted.
One of the peasants, someone hideously deformed and dirty, had attacked her. Catherine halted a scream, afraid it would just bring more degenerates to assault her. “Leave me alone. I’m one of you,” she pleaded with fright.
“For God’s sake, Catherine, it’s me.”
“Michel?”
“Get out of here. Stay at home.”
“You look dreadful. What are you doing? What’s happened to you?”
“I’m in disguise, not unlike yourself, and I risk too much talking to you.” He pushed her back into the street and pointed in the direction of their house. “Go straight down this street. Now.”
He shoved her and raced away. She obeyed, not because she ever took Michel’s orders, but because she wanted to get home anyway and for once, he was right.
Ahead of her, closer to her neighborhood, another fight broke out. Thankfully, the crowd had already dispersed by the time she had walked two more blocks. However, the sight of a cowering man lying in the middle of the street appalled her. His bloodied face looked better than the obviously broken bones that jutted from his limbs. His clothing betrayed his merchant status, another innocent victim of mob terror, in the wrong place at the wrong time.
She almost passed by but stopped. This was the perfect example of what she wanted for her salon. Complete blindness to political affiliation or status. Perhaps he was a fiend, but how could she know? She hopped off the sidewalk and hunched over the man, who was breathing but not conscious. His head bled profusely.
She had to take him to her hospital. She started to lift him but he was extremely heavy, and then she noticed some women watching her.
“He’s not one of us,” one of the women finally shouted at her, waving a tricoloured scarf in the air. Had they attacked this poor man simply because he failed to wear blue, white, and red? She took one of the scarves from around her neck and placed it around the man’s. It seemed trivial as he lay injured, but perhaps it would give them safe passage. She had tied it safely when the two women came over and hovered above her.
“We said he ain’t one of us.”
Catherine: Thomas' Aid
14 July 1789 Dusk
“I’M ONLY TRYING to take him off the street,” Catherine explained to the two glaring women as she held the poor, beaten merchant in her arms. “He’s actually very supportive of the revolution. I’ve seen him with a scarf many times.”
One woman shook her head and laughed. “We know him. I suppose you got the colors on to try to protect yourself. You need to learn that you’re not welcome in our parts.” She shoved Catherine into the mud. Though enraged, Catherine remained calm, afraid that more barbarians might materialize to attack her.
“You’re wrong,” she said. “I support this revolution.”
“Give us money and we’ll let you go. But you’re leaving him to die like he should.”
Catherine seldom traveled with money and had nothing with her, but these two would never believe her and she had every intention of saving this gentleman. “Please, let us pass. We’re no threat to you.”
“Are you deaf, bitch?” They both kicked her back into the mud and one of them stepped on her chest with a heel that dug into her bosom. Catherine heaved forward and knocked them back but they came at her again with snarls.
“Ladies!” a male voice said. “I suggest you leave her alone.”
“Who the hell are you? You won’t hurt no women, so mind your business. I see you don’t wear a scarf, either. Maybe our men need to teach you the same lesson.”
Catherine’s eyes were covered with muck, so she only saw a dark figure.
“I think not,” the man said.
He walked toward her in the street. Catherine scrambled to her feet when the women withdrew slowly. As she stood, she heard one of them start to recite the rosary while the other ran away at full speed. She wiped the mud from her eyes in order to see more clearly.
The sight of Thomas with his fangs descended explained their fear as he wordlessly picked her up. Catherine watched his fangs retract, stifling a giggle despite what had just happened.
With no effort, Thomas bent over and picked up the wounded man in his other arm. He started down the street, turned onto Rue St. Denis, and carried both of them the entire way.
“Thomas, I can walk.”
“We have to get there quickly.”
Catherine marveled at the vampiric power before her. Their speed exceeded anything she had ever witnessed and Thomas carried both of them around with no effort whatsoever. How did he do this? She barely saw the buildings pass. She had assumed that vampirism made him different than mortal men, but this went beyond her wildest imagination.
Graciously, Thomas set her down two houses before the Saint-Laurent home so that no one saw her helplessness. He walked a human’s pace with her to the front door, where guards ushered them inside.
“Take this man to the doctor at once,” she said. Their expressions reminded her that she must look a fright, covered in mud and disheveled. She pretended that nothing was askew, trying to maintain decorum. Thomas handed the man to three attendants who almost fell from the weight.
“Catherine, go clean yourself,” Thomas said.
“You won’t leave?”
“No, I’ll wait.”
She needed Thomas to stay, though she could not explain why or the desperation that welled inside her. She had to sit down alone with him. Afraid that he would leave to find Xavier, she hurriedly changed into something dry, wiped off as much mud as possible, and barely fixed her hair before going back to the parlor. As promised, Thomas had waited.
“I’m sorry, I should have offered you dry clothing,” she said.
“Nonsense.”
“Well, if you want anything, let me know. It’s the least I can do after you saved my life.”
“It was nothing. I was passing and happened to see that you might need some help.”
She could tell that he tried not to offend her. Xavier had probably schooled him on her fierce independence, which made her laugh aloud. “I realize that I’ve the power to get men to walk on eggshells, but you’ve nothing to worry about. I truly appreciate what you did, and it doesn’t bother me in the least.”
“Was I that transparent?” He smiled at her.
“I’ve a feeling that Xavier exaggerates my temper. Unless you change your name to Michel, I doubt that you can get that response.”
“Regardless, I’m glad that I could be of service. What were you doing, anyway?”
“That poor man,” Catherine answered. “He was dying. I couldn’t pass without doing something. I didn’t see those vultures until it was too late. Thank God I had on my scarf or they would’ve come after me sooner.”
“You have the compassion of your brother,” Thomas said.
“What’s that supposed to mean? And why are you laughing?”
“I meant no offense. It’s a charming characteristic. I had no idea that it ran in the Saint-Laurent blood, this total compassion for everyone, including strangers.”
Catherine poured herself some wine before answering. “I don’t suppose that you drink anything?” She held the bottle up.
“I can but do so only for pretense, which I don’t feel the need for with you.”
“Good. I’m sorry I don’t have any blood, but there’s plenty on the streets for you.” Thomas laughed heartily. “I’ve yet to find a good mortal family that will stock blood for me,” he said. “But I meant what I said, about your compassion.”
“I assume you know that Xavier’s compassion extends to everyone, but mine is more limited. He’s like an angel whereas my pity is more selective. I’d hate to think that you saw me as innocent as my brother.”
“Of course I recognize the difference, shall we say, in terms of your perception of reality. Why do you think your actions today surprised me?”
Since Thomas had admitted his vampirism, some nagging worry haun
ted Catherine. Now she realized that she had unconsciously clung to myths about the undead and their evil nature, which especially troubled her as Thomas courted her brother. But his actions today, and his admiration for her rescuing the injured merchant, not to mention his love for Xavier, answered her question. How could he have assisted if he did not care for humanity? He was not a monster, despite this eternal life in darkness. He had human emotion and compassion.
She nonetheless struggled with this relationship between her brother and Thomas. If Thomas came to her separately, away from her family and with regard to unrelated matters, Catherine could accept all that he expressed and desired without reservation. But Thomas did not merely love another man, nor was he simply a vampire searching for love. He had become her brother’s lover. And what did that mean for Xavier? Would he, too, become a vampire?
Could she accept Xavier’s transformation? Never mind whether or not he could cope with such a reality. She wondered how she felt and, in truth, had no idea.
“Am I troubling you?” Thomas asked suddenly.
“No, don’t be ridiculous. Why would you ask such a thing?”
“Because the bustling woman, who’s perpetually in motion, sits before me with a blank expression. I’ve noticed that when we’re alone you reflect more.”
“It’s I, Thomas, not you.”
“Catherine, I never expected you to accept me so easily. I’ve never told other humans about my nature. Before I came to Paris it was a complete secret. I may not have the words to comfort you, but you’ll not offend me.”
She rose from her chair to sit next to him, and took his hand. Absolute impropriety, but she cared little about convention and doubted that Thomas even noticed.
“I need to confess, not as to a priest, which I never do, even to my brother, but to a friend.”
Thomas grabbed her other hand, now holding both tightly, and looked directly into her eyes. “You know that I adore you,” she started. “And of course your being a vampire, or whatever I should call you, caught me unprepared. But I’m understanding it better and better, despite my occasional unease. So you know that I don’t see you as some hideous monster. Now, you know, too, that your sexual proclivities don’t bother me. I’d dealt with them long before we met. I knew about Xavier before he suspected it himself. I’m still not sure how much he acknowledges it. The church loves to tell people what to do, where to do it, and even how. I think it’s because so many theologians are perverts and frustrated sexually because they pretend to abstain. What others think about your sexual proclivities is ridiculous.”
Again they laughed until Thomas spoke. “What are you really saying?”
“It’s Xavier. I’m not sure how I feel. If you were rich and came to steal him away to America as your slave, and he willingly went, I wouldn’t care. But I’m not sure what to feel about the fact that it entails something more. I’m not so ignorant to presume it doesn’t mean that he’ll be undead. That’s different.”
Thomas remained quiet.
“I despise people who interfere illogically in other people’s business. I’d never stop Xavier from seeing you or reveal your secret to him in order to gain an upper hand. I’ve lived with men doing that to me my entire life. I guess that I want you to know that I’d never do anything of the sort. This is Xavier’s decision alone and that will be hard enough.”
Having this in the open liberated her mind. She had told the truth, every bit of it, from her turmoil to the fact that she loved each of them. She got up from the couch and ran to the window, looking out at Paris. Dark, dirty, bloody, Paris.
She did not flinch when Thomas came beside her and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
“I appreciate your honesty.”
“I still want to help you with Xavier.”
“If needed, I’ll ask.”
“He needs someone strong and masculine to protect him. You’re perfect for that.” She did believe it, but how far was she willing to go?
“Catherine, relax. I’ll come to you if needed. I won’t steal him away without your knowledge. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to find Xavier.”
Catherine escorted Thomas to the front door. Though he had patiently chatted until she felt better, it dawned on her that he had probably fretted the entire time about going to Xavier. Thomas worried about her brother, and she had at one time, too, but long ago she stopped watching over him because he led his own life and nothing she said or did changed it. Besides, she detested people like Michel, who tried to enforce his will on everyone he met. She watched Thomas move easily down the street and then she closed and locked the door.
Xavier's Struggle
14 July 1789 Early night
XAVIER EXITED THE Bastille with a horde of people, self-conscious as he walked through the streets in common garb. He had been alone in the church when the guards knocked on the door in a panic. The parish militia, as he affectionately called them, had news from Paris: the Bastille had been taken over, Parisians were in full riot, and they had even executed the Bastille governor. For his safety, they collected some lay clothing and demanded that he wear it. Xavier reluctantly obeyed but, once dressed, forced them to take him to the Bastille.
And so they, like hundreds of others, toured the Bastille. Xavier recognized all of it because he had often administered the sacraments to prisoners, but it fascinated him to see it swarming with people and completely empty of captives. They passed the time by talking to people and exploring the empty cells until it grew dark and Xavier was weary. At least he used this as an excuse to leave. In truth, he worried that Thomas would not find him.
Xavier walked out the gates and into the drenched streets. He noticed the few remaining people and smiled as a few sprinkles hit his face. Then his heart fluttered when he saw the black-clad man across the street.
“Gentlemen, if you don’t mind, I’ll go with Thomas now,” he told his guards.
They gave way at his insistence. Thomas waited as Xavier bid them adieu and promised to inform them when he returned to the church. Xavier hurried across the street, smiling, but also wondering if they suspected the nature of his evening meetings.
“Thomas,” he said, a surge of pleasure racing down his spine.
Thomas met him with an icy stare.
“What is it?”
“What were you doing here?” Thomas asked tersely.
“Can you believe that I almost missed everything? I was at the church all day before the guards told me about the Bastille. I insisted that we go out, and so we came to tour. Can you believe it? Common citizens walking in and out of the cells, and no militia arrived to put them down.”
Thomas stood like a statue as all of this poured out. Xavier fumbled with the collar on his shirt and longed for the cross around his neck. “I was with my guards,” Xavier continued. “They insisted that I wear these clothes. I look ridiculous, I know.” Xavier stopped suddenly. None of this wooed Thomas, and he became more and more nervous as he spoke. To Xavier, this silence between them was deadly. The chilly rain irritated him but at least it took his attention away from the disapproving figure in front of him.
“Are you angry?” he finally asked
Thomas turned and started down the street as Xavier followed. The mud slid into his boots as the entire scene became dank and depressing.
“What should I do?” Thomas’s voice was firm, not irate, thankfully, yet not the pleasant tone that Xavier loved to hear. “For heaven’s sake, you have to be more careful. They’re rioting. Do you understand that many of these people hate the church and any representative of it? I appreciate that you changed your clothes, but what if someone recognized you?”
“I wanted only to see things.”
“I know that you don’t want to stay inside, but—we need to go some place private.”
They walked a couple more blocks, Thomas pulling Xavier by the arm, until they reached Xavier’s church. Alone in the drab space of his room, Xavier stood motionless as Thomas locked the
door then turned to him and let out a long breath of air. Xavier felt nervous and excited at the same time, his typical turmoil whenever he found himself alone with Thomas.
“I know I worry too much. But if we’re to be friends, or whatever you want to call us, I need to know that you’re not being careless. I’m not angry, but I wonder about your safety constantly, to the point of getting sick to my stomach.”
Xavier melted at Thomas’s pleas. If only he could be with Thomas all day. Being in Paris never threatened him, but Thomas, Catherine, Michel, and even his parishioners kept telling him differently. His thoughts whirled, and then the tears came. Those damnable, effeminate tears streamed down his face. Thomas embraced him at once and moved him to the bed.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said and kissed Xavier’s head.
“It’s not you. I’m just confused. I want to be a part of this but don’t know what to do. I’d never intentionally put myself at risk, I just trust that people won’t lash out indiscriminately. We have to believe in their goodness.”
Xavier detested sobbing. It embarrassed him and too often stifled their conversation because it made Thomas quit talking. “Do you think I’m completely wrong?” Xavier asked.
“I think you have too much faith in people.”
Though offended, Xavier said nothing. Thomas and Catherine talked as if he walked about in a daze, like a newborn puppy that trusts and loves everyone. But Xavier disliked some people and knew of irredeemable individuals. He just allowed people to prove their worth or lack thereof before making a judgment. His experiences further proved him right and demonstrated the goodness of humanity. Why did that make him naïve?
“And it relates to your faith in Catholicism,” Thomas continued. “I know your faith isn’t based on everything the church teaches, but it’s still devout. You think that as a priest you have to attain an ideal in how you view people and in your own life, regardless of reality or what the people around you say to the contrary.”