Dangerous Desires

by Louise Clark

  The people who teemed through the narrow streets surrounded Stephanie with a babble of accents that came from all over France. The people's voices were as noisy as ever, but their eyes were nonetheless watchful as they went about their business. Stephanie, the stranger, was observed and avoided. By the end of the day, she felt more alien amongst her own people than she ever had in London.

  As she sat in the pleasant gardens of the Palais Royale munching her breakfast, she decided that she must visit her father at the Tuileries as soon as possible, for she did not want to linger in Paris any longer than was absolutely necessary. Already her heart ached for Nicholas and the warmth of his love, the security of his arms about her. She must convince her father to leave quickly, so that they could be gone. With a little sigh, she closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wide trunk of an oak tree. Dreaming of Nicholas and their time together transported her away from so unhappy a place. She indulged herself for a minute or two longer, while she rallied her strength so that she could figure out how to sneak into the chateau to see her father. For the unpalatable truth was that the shabby coat she had bought from a second hand shop before leaving London branded her as a poor bourgeoisie. She could not simply present herself to a footman at the Chateau des Tuileries and demand entry. She would be thrown out before she even completed her request. But there must be a way. There was always a way if one searched hand enough for it.

  With weary resolve she got to her feet and brushed small bits of grass and leaves from her breeches. As she was bent, she heard the raised voice of a man say something about the Tuileries and planting a tree on the morrow. Her interest piqued, she wandered over to listen to the fellow.

  The Palais Royale had long been the center of revolutionary ferment in Paris. In its shops, the radical presses produced their rabid news sheets; in the green oasis of its gardens, speakers roused the people of the Paris Commune to frenzies of anger and hate; those who wanted to rule the country came there to gather the support of Parisians. It was there that Stephanie discovered how she could safely gain entry to the Chateau des Tuileries.

  On this day, the Girondins were attempting to bind the people to their cause. The speaker was a well-dressed man in a dark coat and breeches of good cloth. He brandished a news sheet for emphasis as he announced that on the next day, the twentieth of June, a tree was to be planted in the Tuileries Gardens, a tree that would commemorate the third anniversary of the Tennis Court Oath, effectively the day on which the revolution could truly be said to have begun.

  Stephanie had drawn close to the speaker; she was surrounded by others, who cheered when the reason for planting the tree was mentioned. A man beside her muttered, "That ain't the only reason for marching tomorrow."

  Stephanie glanced at him. His boxy trousers and short, square-cut jacket proclaimed him to be one of the volatile sansculottes whose support of one faction or another had swayed the direction of the revolution more than once. "No?"

  He chortled and elbowed her. "You must be from the country, boy."

  She nodded, wondering if he had noticed the careful purity of her speech and assumed that she must be from somewhere else because of it.

  "Aye, I guessed it. Well, boy, what's happening is this. The King, God rot his soul"—he paused to spit, graphically indicating his feelings for the monarch—"has dismissed the only honest men he's ever had as his ministers—Citizen Brissot and the men of the Girond. Now, you see, Citizen Brissot ain't one to take that kind of insult lying down. Understand?"

  Wide-eyed, Stephanie shook her head, Her informant made a disgusted sound in his throat. "Just arrived, did you?"

  A faint smile curled Stephanie's lips. "Yesterday," she said, trying to imitate his accent.

  He grunted. "Guessed it." He eyed her consideringly. "You'd best look sharp, boy, or you'll find yourself in trouble. Paris ain't kind to innocents."

  Something flickered into life in Stephanie. "I can look after myself. Pray explain to me, sir, what you meant when you said Monsieur Brissot would not suffer the insult."

  "Citizen! Call me, and everyone else, citizen! Paris don't hold with them old ways anymore, boy." He shook his head sadly. "Ye brand yourself as a pigeon to be plucked every time you open your mouth."

  Stephanie's eyes glittered. "I learn quickly, citizen, and I speak as little as possible. Come, I would know of what Citizen Brissot and his men have planned for the morrow."

  He smiled rather wearily. "Aye, I expect you'll do." He shrugged, as if admitting that the fate of an unknown from the country was none of his concern.

  "There won't be no tree planting at the Tuileries tomorrow. Instead, Citizen Brissot intends to storm the Chateau and prove to the King that he has the people on his side. That should force our cowardly monarch to reinstate the Girondins as his ministers. And right glad we'll all be when that happens!" he added passionately.

  Stephanie did not hear him. Her heart had begun to beat wildly with excitement. This was her opportunity to get into the palace. The timing was perfect. Tomorrow she would join the mob to gain entry; then, once she was inside, she would slip into the private apartments, identify herself, and demand to see her father. It was all so simple. She would be back in London within the week.

  * * *

  The crowd approached the Chateau des Tuileries from the east, thousands of Parisians, sullen and armed. These were not loyal subjects intent on enjoying a mild commemorative outing and raising a cheer for their king. These were angry people looking for vengeance and blood.

  Silence fell upon the mob as it neared the palace. The very stillness was ominous, speaking more loudly of danger than the shouting of slogans and demands would have done. The gates of the Chateau were defended by National Guardsmen who had replaced the King's elite Swiss Guards, but these troops did nothing to hinder the massive crowd. Even if they had wanted to keep the truculent sansculottes from entering the palace grounds, they lacked the numbers to do so. And the truth was that the National Guardsmen had no more respect for the sanctity of the monarch than the average Parisian.

  At the steps of the chateau the mob halted, milling about the grounds, not sure of what to do next. Provocateurs, adept in the art of rousing a mob, began to shout demands that the King must see them, that it was his duty to hear his people, and that the doors must be opened. The people bellowed and raised their weapons—a sorry collection of pitchforks, axes, picks, staves, pikes, and any number of implements, as well as more lethal pistols and muskets.

  One of the erstwhile Girondin ministers shoved his way to the shallow staircase that led to the closed doors of the palace. He brandished a gleaming musket. "No more promises. No more pretense! Today we shall see the King in his own house. Today we will have our answers! En avant, mes amis. To the Palace!"

  A great roar went up. The man raised the butt of his weapon to batter open the lock on the imposing double doors. The crowd surged forward to give assistance. Moments later the great portal flew open and the mob streamed into the palace.

  Stephanie was among the second echelon of those entering the chateau, and she was appalled to see that the leaders had come armed with more than mere muskets. The Parisians, drunk with excitement, elated at yet another victory over the hated autocracy, cheered as a cannon was dragged up the grand staircase which led to the royal apartments. At that moment, it seemed that nothing could keep them from their goal—not Guardsmen, courtiers, or the very walls of the palace itself. The King was doomed.

  Revulsion made Stephanie shiver as she imagined the havoc that this instrument of destruction could wreak on the upper floors. The horror, the panic, the utter helplessness that those inside the chateau must have been feeling as the raucous sansculottes invaded their sanctuary, flooded through her. She could not be part of this madness! But as she considered breaking away from the mob, she realized that she could not. Even if she had had the strength to force her way through the crowd, she knew that she would never have a better opportunity to seek out her father. After
the violence of the demonstration, there would naturally be a reaction the following day. Restrictions would be tightened. Those wishing to visit the chateau would be scrutinized more closely, and their motives questioned. A poorly dressed youth from the country would never be allowed access to the court.

  No, this was her only chance. Grimly, she put aside her reservations and allowed herself to be carried forward by the tide of humanity intent on enjoying every moment of its grisly entertainment.

  Swept along on a wave of people, she found herself climbing the elegant staircase in the wake of the infamous cannon. Independent movement was almost impossible due to the crush of bodies, and as she was impelled forward, Stephanie took refuge in memories of happier times in the old building. Slowly, a plan began to form in her mind.

  Having gained access to the palace, the mood of the crowd lightened. Jubilant shouts went up—these were the sansculottes, the ordinary people of Paris, and they had come to see their King. Around her, Stephanie heard comments about the superb decorations—the gilt, the fine tapestries, the exquisite paintings adorning the walls. Beneath the bravado was the pure awe of those who had never seen such luxuries before and could never expect to enjoy them in their own lives. For a moment, sympathy softened the anger and outrage that burned in Stephanie. But only for a moment. Then she remembered the cannon, the muskets, the tools for bludgeoning innocents, wielded by the mob around her. Sympathy fled.

  The upper corridors were ominously empty, for the servants and courtiers had disappeared behind the fragile security of closed doors. The mob swept along the main hallway, seeking the Salon de L'Oeil de Boeuf, the antechamber where the King often met dignitaries. They wanted to see their monarch. To bend him to their will, to force him to acknowledge that the people of France were the masters of France.

  Stephanie knew these corridors, and she knew when to melt into the shadows so that she could slip into one of the private rooms without being followed. Her opportunity to escape the mob came when a shout went up that the King had been found. For a moment, she hovered at the edge of a passage, then drifted into a short hallway that led to a series of interconnected rooms.

  Memory had not played her false. The first of the rooms was empty, but at the door leading from the second to the third, a footman stood guard, dressed in rich purple livery and wearing a snowy white wig. He and Stephanie eyed each other across the sparsely furnished reception room, neither willing to make the first move. Then Stephanie straightened her back and tilted her chin in an august display of inherent authority. She walked quickly, but not threateningly, over to the servant.

  "I wish to see the Marquis de Mont Royale. Take me to him."

  The servant, unwilling to precipitate a confrontation with one of the invading horde, but sworn to protect those who hid beyond these doors, said reluctantly, "I cannot."

  Stephanie raised one eyebrow in haughty disbelief and said dryly, "Your devotion to your masters is commendable, but Monsieur de Mont Royale will not thank you for keeping me away." The man swallowed, but stood firm. As he was by far the larger, both he and Stephanie knew that he could not be overpowered. "Very well," she said softly. "Be so kind as to have a message sent to the Marquis."

  The footman's eyes met Stephanie's and something he saw in her gaze made him nod agreement. "Tell the Marquis," she said firmly, "that Stephan, who is newly returned to Paris, wishes to speak with him."

  The footman frowned as he swiftly scrutinized her threadbare, ill-fitting coat, the better quality breeches and the fine lawn shirt she had borrowed from Nicholas's wardrobe. After a moment, his gaze returned to her face. "Newly returned, Monsieur? The wording could be misconstrued. Perhaps it would be better to say that Stephan is visiting Paris for a short time only."

  Stephanie grinned. "Undoubtedly, you are right. I pray you, do not keep me waiting long. I doubt the motives of that rabble outside."

  Bowing, the footman opened the door he guarded. "I shall send for the Marquis immediately, but until he arrives come inside, Monsieur. You will be safer in the Queen's anteroom than alone here."

  Much relieved, Stephanie followed him through the double doorway. Like the other rooms, this one was sparsely furnished and as empty of courtiers as all the others. The footman strode across the parquet floor to a door hidden in the wall. He tapped several times in a prearranged code before the door opened. Quietly he passed the message along. After a moment, the door closed again and the footman came to bow before Stephanie. "The Marquis will be told of your presence, Monsieur. I cannot promise he will see you."

  Stephanie smiled. "He will see me."

  The servant bowed again and retreated to his post on the other side of the door. Stephanie perched on a spindle-legged chair to wait impatiently. Inevitably her thoughts turned to the crowd outside. She had been right to seize the opportunity to enter the palace, for it was obvious that the monarchy was doomed. The anger, the barely restrained violence that permeated Paris, spoke louder than the words of any pretentious observer. Even if the Austrians invaded, disbanded the Assembly, and restored the King to his former powers, his hold on France would still be shaky. Sooner or later, there would be another uprising, more rioting, perhaps even more violent in nature. Change had become inevitable.

  There was a great shout from beyond the sheltering walls of the private room. Stephanie's heart skipped a beat then pounded fearfully. The sound had been muffled by the walls, but the roar of thousands of voices could not be restrained by mere partitions of wood and plaster. She looked down at her hands and was surprised to see that they were shaking.

  Yes, it was right that her father should leave France, but she realized that she should have waited until Nicholas returned to London and gained his help in organizing an escape. She knew now, too late, that she had stepped into a world with which she was ill equipped to deal. The raw, unleashed passions of the mob, the barely suppressed rage against any and every member of the aristocracy, the hard, callous indifference to the needs or sufferings of others seemed to pervade everyone, making her feel the isolation of an outsider, defenseless in her ignorance.

  Balling her hands into fists, she stood resolutely. Admitting vulnerability and fear to herself did not mean that she had to give in to it. Tilting her head proudly, she looked about for something to keep her treacherous thoughts away from the dangerous knowledge that burdened her. Spying a window, she wandered over to look outside. She was amazed to see that hundreds of people still milled about in the courtyard, though there must have been thousands more already in the palace. The sight made her shiver, and she turned away quickly.

  As she moved, the door to the inner room opened. Stephanie's eyes widened and a smile of pure joy lit her face, for on the threshold stood the Marquis de Mont Royale. "Papa!" She ran across the room as he hurried toward her.

  "Mon Dieu, Stephanie!" he whispered, catching her in his arms to hug her as if he wished never to let her go. "Mon Dieu, Stephanie, my sweet daughter! What are you doing here? Why have you returned?"

  Tears of joy and despair welled up in her eyes. Even on this day of violent upheaval, he was sumptuously dressed in a coat of forest green, a paler green waistcoat, and black breeches. All were of exquisite silk, and at his wrists were ruffles of the finest lace. His wig was carefully powdered to a creamy white. His appearance stated firmly that the rabble might disrupt his life, but they could not lower his standards. "For you, Papa. To bring you away from this madness."

  He caught her shoulders and reluctantly held her away from him. "What are you saying, child? Have I heard aright?"

  She held his gaze steadily, but she could see the confusion in his eyes. A new kind of fear, the fear of the unacceptable, welled up in her as she met his steady gaze and heard his puzzled query, "You expect me to leave France?"

  She nodded, but the astonishment in his voice made her heart sink. "Papa—"

  The sounds of a scuffle could be heard beyond the closed doorway through which Stephanie had entered. "The rabble is
not satisfied with terrorizing His Majesty," Mont Royale said bitterly. "Now they must invade the private apartments as well. Quickly, we will hide in one of the small chambers. Perhaps if they find no one here, they will grow bored with traipsing through a series of empty rooms."

  Several doors led off the anteroom. The Marquis chose one that gained access to a further door beyond. This opened into a small, windowless chamber. "Here we should be safe. The doorway hidden in the wall should confuse any members of the mob who happen to stumble into the other room."

  * * *

  Stephanie's actions had not gone unnoticed in the crowd, as she had believed. One man had thoughtfully watched her swift, almost furtive movements as she slipped away from the rest of the Parisians invading the palace. The Vicomte de St. Luc, down on his luck since his return to France, knew that face, he was sure of it, but somehow he could not place it. There was something wrong with the picture, something he could not pinpoint.

  He had much to do, however, and was not about to waste time brooding over an effete youth. He allowed the current of moving bodies to carry him forward to the Salon, where the King had been found.

  This was St. Luc's first time in the Chateau des Tuileries and he observed everything around him with interest, from the magnificent wall sconces holding a myriad of candles, to the fine artwork and rich tapestries adorning the walls. This was his heritage, his right in a world where breeding was honored beyond the tawdry immediacy of mere wealth. Today would be his first view of the monarch, but if he played his cards well, it would not be his last. It was not his fault that he had not been dealt a winning hand as yet.

  The Salon de L'Oeil de Boeuf was a large room, named after one of the famous antechambers in Versailles, though this room did not have the handsome oval window which had given the other chamber its name. Nonetheless, when the Court returned to Paris, protocol had caused the names of the principal rooms in Versailles to be applied to chambers used for similar purposes in the Tuileries. Hence, this anteroom had been dubbed the Salon de L'Oeil de Boeuf.