by Louise Clark
Louis the Sixteenth stood alone in the center of the room, with the abusive Parisians milling around him. There was no fear on his face as he listened to their insolent threats; he answered each demand with a quiet firmness that brought a new light of respect into the eyes of his tormentors. There could be no doubt that although he might be lacking in moral strength, the King was no coward.
One of the sansculottes, drunk on wine that had been pillaged from the palace stores, held out the red cap that had become the symbol of the extremists, and demanded the King wear it. The moment was fraught with danger, for the mob surrounding the King was vocal in its support of the demand. If Louis refused he could easily be overwhelmed by the masses around him. Perhaps that was what the crowd wished. But Louis took the cap, filthy and greasy as it was, and calmly placed it on his head. A great roar went up from the crowd, and a bottle was brought for him to drink to the health of the nation. Putting it to his lips, he tipped the bottle up and drank. The delight of his subjects knew no bounds. For the moment, Louis's popularity was once more assured. For the moment.
St. Luc turned away in disgust. How could he respect a monarch who bent as easily as Louis? Did the man not see that the only way to subdue these peasants was to crush them? He had joined this repulsive crowd in order to gain access to the palace, perhaps to slip away like the young man whose clothes and appearance somehow did not fit his bearing and features, and find a way to gain an audience with those about the King who mattered. Men like the Marquis de Mont Royale. Perhaps he could use his knowledge of Stephanie de la Riviére in order to gain a favor from her father.
His eyes glazed. Stephanie de la Riviére.
The Vicomte de St. Luc had finally placed the thin, delicate features and haughty manner of the young man who had slipped away from the angry horde. Not a young man at all, he realized, but Stephanie de la Riviére, daughter of the Marquis de Mont Royale and de facto ward of the Earl of Wroxton, here in Paris, at the Tuileries Palace. Once more that impetuous, irritating young woman was about to provide him with the opportunity to restore his fortunes. And this time, there would be no odious, imperious Earl of Wroxton to interfere. St. Luc looked about him—planning, plotting, preparing. It took little effort to convince a dozen or so of the ignorant, half-drunk sansculottes that the hated Queen, Marie Antoinette, could be reached through the closed doorway at the end of the short hall, and that if they found her and dragged her out, they would all be heroes.
The main room was empty when the Vicomte and his rough followers overcame the footman and burst into the chamber. St. Luc's narrowed eyes were filled with the feral cunning of a starving predator as his eyes searched the room, trying to decide which of several doors Stephanie had slipped through. No matter if he chose wrongly, he decided. He would check behind one door, and then the next, and then the one beyond, until he found his victim. This time, he would not be stopped.
Chapter 15
Inside the tiny, private closet, Stephanie and her father stared at one another, momentarily overwhelmed by their emotional meeting. "Come," the Marquis said finally, indicating two gilded bergère chairs set side by side opposite a graceful settee. "Let us sit and use the time granted us to good measure. We maybe interrupted at any moment and I want to know... everything, Stephanie."
Her jaw tightened at the reminder of the violent mob beyond the closed door, but she pushed her fear aside. "Papa, I came because I love you! Perhaps I was foolish, but I heard such stories in England!"
She sank down into the golden damask-covered seat. "And now that I am here, I can see that the stories were not exaggerated. How can you remain in a city so filled with hatred?"
Leaning forward, the Marquis took her hands. "I can, my dear daughter, because I must. I am not at liberty to abandon my duties here in order to escape from the present difficulties."
Stephanie's eyes glinted angrily. "Why not? Others have."
The Marquis looked down at her hands clasped in his. "Because I have sworn an oath that I will remain with His Majesty until this time of trouble is over."
"The King would understand if you told him you must leave! Why, he himself attempted to flee last summer. It was only by chance that he was captured at Varennes."
A small, tender smile touched the Marquis's mouth at her vehemence. "Had the King escaped that day, all of our fates would have been different, Stephanie. But he did not. I cannot abandon him now."
Impatiently, Stephanie pulled her hands away. "The man standing in the Salon de L'Oeil de Beouf at the mercy of the mob is no longer a king! He has lost his throne as surely—"
"Silence!" Imposing in his wrath, Mont Royale's eyes flashed at his daughter. She paled and looked away. "As long as King Louis lives, he reigns in France!" The Marquis drew a deep, calming breath. "Stephanie, too many have abandoned His Majesty, and the hope that the future can be saved. I cannot add my name to a list already too long."
"Papa," she said brokenly as she slipped from her chair to kneel by his. She looked up into his eyes, her own dark with fear, pleading with him to bend his firm resolve. "In England I feared for your safety. Now that I am here, I am terrified! What will happen to you? To the King? To France itself?"
He kneaded her shoulder reassuringly. "Whatever happens is in God's hands, Stephanie."
"Papa, please! Can you not find it in yourself to leave this loathsome place, at least until the madness is over? For me?"
Sighing, the Marquis said sadly, "No, my dear, I cannot. I have given my word that I will not abandon my monarch, and I will not break it."
"Papa, His Majesty would understand!"
"But I would not. My oath was not given only to the King, but to God and myself. I could not live with myself if I were to break my vow and abandon the King in his time of greatest need."
His words struck a chord in Stephanie. Had she not risked all to return to Paris because she feared living with her own guilt far more than she feared the possibility of being captured and imprisoned as an enemy of the Revolution?
Yet, even knowing and understanding why her father refused to leave, she could not abandon the struggle to make him change his mind. For that would have been abandonment of her own promise, her own honor. Though the battle was as good as lost, she continued to fight on. "Papa, even the King's aunts and his brother have fled France. Surely—"
A look of contempt flashed in the Marquis's eyes. "I do not care to be put in the same category with the Comte d'Artois, if you please!" He added more gently, "It is important for members of the Royal Family to be beyond the reach of the Republicans. Should the worst befall the King and the Dauphin... there must be continuity of the line."
Stephanie sucked in her breath. She had not given a thought to the sad fate of the Queen and her children should Louis be deposed. "Mon Dieu," she murmured. "Papa—"
"Continuity is important, Stephanie," he said, refusing to allow her to begin her pleas once more. "That is one of the reasons I sent you to safety in England, so that I would know that the de la Riviére blood would live on in your offspring." His eyes twinkled as he observed her hair, cropped and tied in a masculine way, and the shabby coat she had purchased in the London second hand shop, but his voice was concerned. "I should have realized that my daughter would not submit calmly to the trials of exile. Patience is not an easy virtue to acquire."
Stephanie pouted laughingly. "I remember Mama chiding you for your impatience, Papa. Wait, she would say, and the question will answer itself."
Mont Royale laughed. "Well, my child, your mother was a very sensible woman. I have learned from her wisdom. You must do the same."
Stephanie returned to her chair, but she reached out to hold her father's hands, seeking the strength that had held her so securely through most of her life. "Papa, I cannot remain comfortably and safely in London while you are here, in danger."
The Marquis drew a deep breath. His hands tightened on Stephanie's. "I must stay and you must go, dearest Stephanie. There can be no other way."
Her face crumpled as she shook her head slowly, silently. To prevent the protest he saw forming on her lips, he said quickly, "Now, tell me of your life in England. Is Madeleine de Bretville still as opinionated as ever?"
Though her lips trembled, Stephanie surrendered to his authority and followed his lead. "My Godmama can be a veritable tyrant, but she has been kindness itself to me."
"Good. And her nephew, the Earl of Wroxton. Have you met him yet?"
Stephanie looked down, thinking that even if Nicholas had not confessed that the letter giving him the authority of a guardian over her was a forgery, she would have known from her father's questions now. But the letter and her initial antipathy to the Earl were all in the past. She looked up, her eyes shining. "Yes," she said simply. The delicate rose color flooding her cheeks and the small, secret smile on her lips told the Marquis more than her terse reply.
"So," he said softly. "Are you about to make your father's old heart very happy and tell me you have formed an attachment for milord Wroxton?"
Stephanie lifted her chin, a little defiantly, for custom demanded that the suitor seek a father's permission before approaching his lady. "He has asked me to marry him, Papa."
"And do you love him?"
Her smile shone with tenderness and joy. "With all my heart." She hesitated. Moistening her lips nervously, she added, "I did not plan to fall in love with Nicholas, Papa." She fiddled with a bit of dust on the fabric of her breeches, a convenient ploy to avoid looking into her father's eyes. "At first, I thought I would wed one of the émigré nobles living in London, so that one day I would return to France. But... Papa, how can I do that when my heart belongs to Nicholas? I would compare any man I married to him, and I know that none would match him."
The Marquis tilted up her chin so that he could be sure she would look into his eyes. "You must follow your heart, child. You could not find it in you to love one of the émigrés because they are men who have abandoned their honor, and your heart knew this. Madeleine has always spoken of her nephew as being a fine, upstanding young man. In falling in love with him, your heart has discovered its natural mate. I have always hoped that you would find the kind of happiness with your husband that your mother and I had together."
His lecture over, he chuckled reflectively. "Love matches were unfashionable when your mother and I married, but we laughed at convention and enjoyed defying society. She was my equal, as well as my wife, and I blessed the day she came into my life." He squeezed his daughter's hands. "When you see Lord Wroxton, tell him for me that he must treat you fairly and that he must never abuse the love you are giving him and—"
Laughing, Stephanie interrupted. "Papa. I cannot!"
The Marquis smiled a little ruefully. "No, I suppose not. Then child, tell him that I give you both my blessing, and pray that in happier times we will be reunited as a family."
"Oh, Papa!" Tears filled her eyes. For a short time, while they were talking of Nicholas, the stuffy, closed room and the mob outside had been forgotten. "I love you, Papa."
"And I you, dear daughter." He reached over to embrace her. They clung together, each painfully aware that this might be their last private meeting.
"Now," he said softly, drawing away and patting her shoulder affectionately, "when you leave here you must go to the British Embassy. Tell them who you are and why you are here. Ask them to send word to Lord Wroxton that you are in Paris. They will keep you safe on their grounds until he comes for you. Do you understand, Stephanie? No more daring and dangerous activities."
"Yes, Papa," she said obediently.
The Marquis laughed. "You look just as your mother did whenever I told her she must be careful of herself. She never obeyed one of my commands. She had a mind and a will of her own. I predict that you will lead your Earl a mad dance."
A mischievous glint twinkled in Stephanie's eyes. "I have already begun, Papa."
Ruefully, the Marquis said, "Yes, I guess you have. The poor man must be frantic, wondering where you are."
"I left him a note, Papa!" she retorted indignantly. "I would not just go off without a word. Besides, he is in the Low Countries, or in one of the German principalities—"
The door to the small chamber was flung open, hitting the wall with a resounding bang that made both Stephanie and her father jump guiltily.
"How very interesting," drawled the educated, vicious voice of the Vicomte de St. Luc. He strolled into the room, his mincing walk at odds with the rough costume of the Parisian poor that he was wearing. "And what do we have here? One of the odious bourgeoisie closeted with the ci-devant Marquis de Mont Royale. What plots are being hatched between two such natural enemies of the Revolution, I wonder?"
"This is none of your affair, sir. There is no wrongdoing here, nor is the nation in any danger from the conversation I have had with this young person. I pray you, leave us."
"Leave, Citizen? Why? So those infamous plots may reach fruition?"
"I have already explained," the Marquis said with calm dignity, but his eyes were dark with anger.
"Monsieur le Vicomte de St. Luc," Stephanie said suddenly. She had been staring at the man's face much in the same way he had stared at her, knowing the features, voice and mannerisms, but unable to associate a memory with the current appearance. St. Luc's clothes were those of the Parisian sansculotte—long, loose cotton trousers; a short jacket, called a carmagnole, worn open over a coarsely woven, but brightly striped blouse; and heavy sabots on his feet. He was bareheaded, and without the wig he usually wore to cover his thinning hair, the shape of his head and face was different. In all ways, his appearance had changed as radically as his status in life. Stephanie flicked a searing glance down his person, then looked beyond him to the rabble who were crowding the doorway. "I see you have reached your proper level of associates."
St. Luc reddened at the contempt in her voice. "Be careful what you say, mon ami." He slid closer, his eyes glittering with a feral madness as he spoke in a low voice that only Stephanie and her father could hear. "These are not the refined society gentlemen you are used to, Mademoiselle. These peasants would be happy to take you against your will and use your body for their pleasure, should they happen to discover you are a woman and not just a pretty boy." He flicked the loosely tied neckcloth at her throat tauntingly, not bothering to add that with luck, he would be the only one using Stephanie's slender, tantalizing body for his pleasure.
Stephanie slapped his hand away, fury blazing from her dark eyes. "Perhaps ci-devant Vicomte de St. Luc, they would applaud my courage, as they have done for so many other women," she hissed. "You may not be aware, St. Luc, because you had already run away to England at the time, but it was the women of Paris who marched to Versailles and forced the King to return with them. Women have played a greater part in this revolution than pitiful men of your sort!"
The Marquis, as furious as his daughter, but very much aware of the danger which he and, especially, Stephanie were in, knew that he must not give way to his emotions. Cold, rational logic would ease the tension in the room and end the confrontation. It must, for they had no other options. "I say again, nothing untoward has occurred in this room. Monsieur le Vicomte..."
St. Luc rounded savagely on him, fearful for his own safety in the mob of revolutionaries. "Don't call me that! I abandoned the use of my title when I realized it was a symbol of an outmoded system."
"Bah!" Stephanie said indignantly. "I know for a fact that you used it in England, when you were trying to ingratiate yourself into society."
A dangerous smile lit St. Luc's face. "I used the title so that I might better gain information against the enemies of the revolution."
"You spied on England? On your friends?" Stephanie made no attempt to control the disdain in her voice. "You are despicable."
Once again the Vicomte reddened, but this time he had an outlet for his fury. "And you, fine scion of the house of Mont Royale, how do you know so much about my habits in England? Could it be that what we se
e here is a young nobleman, an émigré, returned to France for God knows what wicked purposes?" He laughed cruelly. "Did you know, young de la Riviére, that these men would tear you to pieces if I chose to give the command?"
Stephanie tilted her chin up while contriving to look scornfully down her nose at St. Luc. "You terrify me, Vicomte."
"Stephan..." her father said warningly, relieved that St. Luc did not intend to reveal Stephanie's sex, but not sure what his purpose was. He continued uneasily, "Monsieur—"
"Citizen!"
"Citizen St. Luc. There is no need for this anger. We are all sensible men here. Something can be worked out."
Sick triumph blazed from St. Luc's eyes. "Perhaps I shall remind you of that promise, Mont Royale. But for the moment, I shall relieve you of your young relative."
Eyes flashing, the Marquis roared, "No!"
"Stephan de la Riviére, I arrest you in the name of the Revolution." St. Luc caught Stephanie's arm. "You will come with me. Now."
Stephanie looked past his shoulder to the crowd behind him. The outraged anger that had sustained her drained away as she acknowledged how dangerous was the position in which she had placed both herself and her father. There was no hope for leniency in the faces that stared back at her, no pity, no tolerance. These were men who believed that the old regime had sold them short, men who hated the remnants of aristocratic power, and who would destroy the human symbols of it with a smile and a song.
There would be no mercy for her, even if she revealed that she was a woman.
Her father would protect her, or die trying, but she could no more be the cause of his demise than she could remain safely in England while he was in danger in Paris. "I will go with you, St. Luc," she said, jerking her arm out of his grasp, "but first..." She turned and knelt before her father. "Papa, I beg of you, your blessing, as you promised me earlier." Her eyes pleaded with him to remain calm, to listen to her words and remember what they had told each other that day. A wry smile curled her mouth. "I fear that now I shall need it far more than before."