Before Ever After

by Samantha Sotto

  VERSAILLES, FRANCE

  April 1778

  The bed’s canopy kept out the pale morning rising in the garden. Antoine slid away from an embrace and shivered. The blankets called him back. He pushed the thought of warmth aside and set himself to the task of finding his clothes.

  He groped around the parquet floor and knocked over an empty wine bottle. It crunched over broken eggshells as it rolled under the bed. He followed its trail. The bottle came to a halt next to his rumpled breeches and a wig of white-blond hair. The wig’s ornamental birds nested in the crotch of his pants. He shook the uninvited feathered guests off and stood up. His ruffled shirt was hanging from one of the bedposts. He pulled on his clothes and slipped out of the queen’s bedroom.

  Antoine strode into the bedchamber of the queen’s favorite lady-in-waiting and marched up to her bed. He grabbed a foot sticking out from under the silk sheets. “Rise and shine, Adrien.”

  “Go away.” The young man’s voice was muffled by the large breasts piled over his face.

  “We need to go,” Antoine said sternly.

  Adrien disentangled himself from a pair of fleshy legs. He yawned and rolled out from under the covers. “Oh, look.” He glanced at his morning erection. “Shame to waste it. Won’t be a minute.”

  Antoine dragged Adrien off the snoring woman. “When will you grow up?”

  “You first. It is your birthday, after all.”

  “My birthday? Clearly, you’re still drunk. As I recall, it was your birthday we toasted last night.”

  “Well, I thought that since you don’t like celebrating your own birthday, I’d share mine with you. Consider it a present.”

  The woman mumbled in her sleep.

  “How kind.” Antoine threw Adrien’s shirt at him. “But can we continue this conversation when you’re wearing a little bit more than just an idiotic grin?”

  The grass was still wet with dew when they emerged from the Petit Trianon. Dawn was Antoine’s favorite time of day, and the sprawling grounds of Versailles did it justice. The dim light veiled the garden’s colors, but Antoine could already smell the flowers, their scents flitting in the air along with the gurgle of distant fountains. Yellow. Pink. Peach. Everything was still so new, he thought. It was easier to be happy.

  “So how do you think we should celebrate your birthday?” Adrien plucked a rose from a bush and pressed it to his nose.

  “I told you, I don’t like celebrating my birthday.”

  “I’ve never understood that.” Adrien threw the rose away. “Birthdays are fun. Don’t tell me you didn’t have a good time last night.”

  “Birthdays are better when they’re someone else’s,” Antoine said. “When you get to be my age …”

  “Your age? You’re hardly over thirty, my friend, though sometimes I feel that you carry the burden of a much older man. You don’t always have to be so serious.”

  “Believe me, I’m trying.”

  “Good. It’s settled then.”

  “What’s settled?”

  “Today is your birthday, and tonight we drink.”

  The wine swam in Antoine’s head. He fluffed up the pillows behind his neck, regretting that he had let Adrien have his way. It was pointless arguing with Adrien on matters involving wine and women. It wasn’t a question of winning the debate—it was a matter of not wanting to. Losing had its own rewards, however brief. And now it had passed. Antoine pushed himself off the bed and threw up in the bucket beside it.

  He wiped his mouth with a wet cloth. He knew he was not setting the best example for Adrien, but youth was for making such mistakes. With any luck, Adrien might even learn from them. Who was he to stand in the way of Adrien’s education? He was not in a position to preach. In many ways, he saw himself in Adrien. He found Adrien’s lust for life—or anything in a corset, really—infectious. It helped him remember a time when he had felt the same way. Well, almost. The memory was always beyond his grasp, slipping away right before he could smile at his past willfulness. He contented himself with viewing the world through Adrien’s eyes. They were young and had yet to be jaded. He, in turn, provided Adrien with the occasional, though necessary, whack on the head. It was a good partnership.

  Antoine had grown to know Adrien well in the course of their working together. But they were more than just business associates. They were friends. When Adrien’s parents had passed away, Antoine asked him to join him in his trading company. Adrien had jumped at the opportunity. Running his family’s apothecary was not something Adrien had particularly enjoyed. He liked to pound his pestle in the midst of fancier surroundings, preferably one with a canopy above it and silk sheets beneath. He was, in fact, off doing just that. Antoine had declined to accompany him. The thrill of Versailles’ bedrooms was not what it used to be.

  Adrien’s elixir was another thing Antoine had passed on that evening. For once he wanted to wake up the next day and feel something. A pounding headache was better than nothing at all. He was tired of feeling numb, of pretending that having a woman in his bed made him feel less cold inside. Whether he woke up in a royal bedchamber or in his own room, the day ahead was always the same. He was a day older and more alone. He closed his eyes and sighed. “Happy birthday.”

  “Out with it.” Antoine leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the carved writing desk. He was still nursing his hangover. “What did you do this time?”

  Adrien looked at him across the desk. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you are talking about.” He turned his attention back to his account books.

  “I know you, and I have the misfortune of being well acquainted with that look.”

  “What look?” Adrien widened his amber eyes.

  “That look,” Antoine said. “The look of someone who has just stolen the crown jewels and stuffed them up his ass.”

  “Nonsense.” Adrien returned to his work.

  “Very well, if you say so. Just don’t expect me to come running with a spade to dig you out from the latest pile of excrement you’ve managed to bury yourself under.”

  “Oh, come now. I thought you enjoyed our little adventures.”

  Antoine rolled his eyes. “It’s late. I’m going home. Lock up the office when you’re done, will you?”

  “It’s nothing, really,” Adrien said.

  “It always is.” Antoine sat down.

  “She was sleeping when I left.”

  “Who was sleeping?”

  “The duchess. She was sleeping when I left her side.” Adrien shifted in his seat.

  “So? You always leave while she’s snoring away.”

  “Exactly! She’s always been a heavy sleeper, right?”

  “Adrien, please, feel free to get to your point anytime in this century.”

  “The point is … well, she woke up.”

  Antoine drummed his fingers on the desk. “I’m waiting.”

  “And saw me getting out of bed.”

  “Still waiting.” Antoine folded his arms over his chest.

  “I was getting out of her cousin’s bed.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “I told you it was nothing,” Adrien said. “Although the duchess did appear to be the tiniest bit cross with me. But then again, I could be mistaken.”

  “Mistaken? How so?”

  “Well, I was rather busy dodging the various heavy brass objects she was throwing my way to really pay attention to what she was saying.”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you suppose we’re still on for cards with the queen tonight?”

  Antoine leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. “Adrien, my friend, I think it would be safe to assume that you can make other plans for the evening.”

  “Oh.”

  “And if I might make a tiny suggestion as to the nature of these plans …”

  “Yes, please.”

  “They should involve a rather urgent business trip and a very fast horse. I will come by your house at half past the hour.”


  Antoine knew what it was like to flee, to shed a life as though it were a cloak. He had learned to pack light. The less he had, the less he had to leave behind. It was a lesson Adrien would have to learn. Quickly. Antoine did not look forward to teaching him. There was only one thing he liked less than running away: getting caught.

  He knocked on Adrien’s door. It was ajar. He held his breath and swung it open. A servant was cowering in a corner of the room. She did not have to speak for Antoine to realize what had happened. He was too late. The king’s soldiers, on the strength of a lettre de cachet, had already taken his friend. Antoine was not surprised. The royal warrant had stolen others away for lesser crimes. He swore under his breath and swung back on his horse. He chased after the arresting party, hoping he was wrong about where they were heading.

  MIREN’S BARGE

  THE SEINE, PARIS

  Five Years Ago

  Max glanced out of a porthole. “We should be moving out to the deck now.”

  “Wait,” Shelley said. “You can’t stop now.”

  “I would never leave you unsatisfied, luv,” Max said. “I just thought we could continue outside. There’s something thrilling about doing it outdoors, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Shelley felt her ears glow hot as Max’s grin grew wider. In a minute she could throw steaks on them and get a nice char.

  “Absolutely, dear,” Rose said. “Remember that time in Tahiti, Jonathan?”

  “Er, ah, yes.” Jonathan blushed. “Of course, dear.”

  The barge drifted beneath one of the old stone bridges crossing the Seine. The bridge stood firmly anchored in time, oblivious to the water and years flowing beneath it. The air was cooler under the shadow of its unchanging arch.

  “This is the Pont de la Concorde,” Max said. “The parapets of this bridge are built from stones salvaged from what became Adrien’s home for the next eleven years of his life.”

  “Adrien’s home?” Dex asked.

  “Yes,” Max said. “The Bastille.”

  PARIS

  April 1789

  Adrien had hoped that Louis XVI, or rather his milled likeness, might do a better job than Antoine at pleading his case to the Bastille’s warden. Unfortunately, it turned out that the gold sovereign was as adept at buying his freedom as the real king was in ruling France.

  He stared at the ceiling. In the eleven years that he had lain under it, he had come to memorize every whorl and crack across its beams. It had not changed much over the years except, it seemed, for its height. When he was first imprisoned, it had pressed down on him until he couldn’t breathe. Today it was less asphyxiating. The ceiling must have gotten higher, Adrien thought, or perhaps he had learned to do with less air.

  He had, in fact, gotten quite used to his accommodations. Sleeping in his own bed, being surrounded by his own furniture, and having his needs tended to by his manservant made it easy to imagine he was in a well-appointed apartment—that just happened to be locked from the outside. Adrien was happy to learn that, far from its dreaded reputation as a house of horrors, the Bastille was the rather luxurious confinement for the country’s wayward elite. While it was a lesson he would rather have not learned firsthand, he was relieved nonetheless.

  A knock on the door interrupted his reverie. His manservant showed Antoine in and took his coat.

  “Happy birthday,” Antoine said. “How was the party?”

  Adrien shrugged. “The wine was good, the women not as much, though they did seem to get better the more I drank.”

  Antoine took a seat on the couch. “I see that the years of incarceration haven’t changed you much.”

  “Just keeping the sword sharp, my friend.” Adrien waved his servant away. “Rusty blades have a tendency to fall off, you know.”

  “And sharp ones thrust in the wrong places tend to be locked up.”

  “Touché. My beloved duchess does know how to hold a grudge, doesn’t she?”

  “And so do the people of France, it seems,” Antoine said. “Their grumblings grow louder outside these walls. There are whispers of revolution.”

  “I’ve heard the warden speak of such things, too,” Adrien said. “With my luck, the masses will rise up and forget that I’m locked in here.”

  “Perhaps,” Antoine said. “But I will not. I will never forget you. You have my word.”

  Adrien embraced Antoine. He thought it was ironic how their years apart had brought them closer. He had grown to appreciate his friend’s company more now that they were not busy emptying their wineglasses or unlacing corsets. He had more time to listen to Antoine’s stories. His tales of basilisks, ancient monasteries, and war were the highlights of Adrien’s week. He liked the stories with chickens the best. Earlier, he had worried that Antoine would run out of stories to tell, but he never did. Adrien had learned that his friend had a vast and wild imagination, but real or not, Antoine’s tales made him laugh and, sometimes, even cry.

  “We are family.” Antoine drew away and ruffled Adrien’s hair. He handed him a satchel. “Here. I brought you more books in case you find some time between your card games and dinner parties.”

  “Thank you. I enjoyed last week’s selections immensely. The three Bibles you sent were difficult to put down.”

  Antoine grinned. “I thought they might comfort you in these trying times. But I think you’ll find the history books I have for you this week more to your liking. They are absolutely hilarious.”

  “Antoine, I do believe that you are the only one I know who finds history books comical,” Adrien said. “So will you be staying for dinner? The new chef makes an excellent roast, and I think we shall be having some fruit tarts for dessert. They are always quite delectable.”

  PARIS

  July 14, 1789

  Adrien rapped his knuckles against the inside of his door. “Hello? Is anyone out there?”

  One of the Swiss mercenaries contracted to guard the prison answered from the hallway. “What do you want?”

  “I do believe it’s time for my walk,” Adrien said.

  “Prisoners are not allowed out of their cells today.”

  Adrien heard the guard walking away. “Wait. Why?”

  “It is for your protection.”

  “From what? Tripping on a rock in the courtyard? Come now. Let me out.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then tell me what’s going on out there.”

  The guard took a deep breath. He walked back to Adrien’s cell and whispered through the door, “A mob—a large one—is gathering outside.”

  The shouts of the crowd grew loud enough to be heard in Adrien’s cell. They demanded that the fortress surrender and give up its cache of gunpowder and arms. Adrien wondered if that was all they wanted. Their voices were ragged. Hungry. Perhaps for justice, or for something more. Would the people see him as a prisoner or as a man of privilege, a symbol of all they despised? Or did it even matter as long as they could find limbs to grab onto and rip apart? Blood, like wine, was intoxicating.

  He worried about Antoine. If there was a swarm at the gates of the Bastille, the rest of the city might not be faring any better. He wished he had read at least one of Antoine’s Bibles. Maybe he would know how to pray for his friend’s safety and his own. He knelt. Outside, wood thundered against the ground, ripping him from his attempted plea.

  The drawbridge to the inner courtyard had been cut. Adrien heard the crowd storming over it. He shielded his ears from the gunfire and screams, but it was no use. They crept up his spine.

  Then it went quiet, but it was not the kind of silence that lulled you to sleep. It was restless and sharp. It twisted inside him. He could feel the mob’s hate seeping through his door. If the silence meant a ceasefire, it was not going to last long.

  The stairway to the north tower roared with the angry swarm. A fleeing guard told Adrien that the Bastille’s governor had surrendered the prison and opened the gates. Adrien held his breath. His door shook on its hinges as the mob ramm
ed against it. It cracked but did not fall. They tried again. He shrank behind his bed. The door crashed down. The crowd swept into the room. Adrien squeezed his eyes shut, arms wrapped around his legs, ready to be torn apart. Then he was hoisted up, hovering above the crowd. He opened his eyes. The ceiling loomed closer. He frowned. He was either dead and had not quite made it up to heaven or he was sitting on someone’s shoulders. He glanced down. Antoine grinned at him from the cheering crowd.

  Adrien stared at him openmouthed. “What …”

  “I apologize for the delay. Some enterprising fellow stole the keys to your cell as a souvenir. I believe he also carted the governor away. I had to get some help.” Antoine smiled. “Now, dear friend, be a good symbol of the people and wave. Repeat after me. Vive la révolution!”

  Chapter Seven

  Pierre and pachyderms

  PARIS

  Five Years Ago

  The stones of the Bastille grew smaller as the barge made its way down the Seine.

  “Records show that the storming of the Bastille yielded a grand total of seven prisoners: two lunatics, four forgers, and one Irish nobleman imprisoned for debt,” Max said. “Adrien and Antoine had left Paris before history could jot their names down for posterity. This suited the two just fine since it was this very anonymity that enabled their safe passage to Scotland. Antoine left Adrien in the care of friends in the French Huguenot community there. Adrien, who had considerably mellowed with age, found country life rather agreeable. He married the daughter of a respected poultry farmer and settled into a long and rich life filled with chickens and children.”

  The group applauded. The barge slowed and veered toward a quay.

  “That was a lovely story, dear.” Rose patted Max’s arm.

  “Yes, great story, Max,” Dex said, “but how do you know all this stuff?”