Love's First Light (2 page)
Christophé had been at the Académie Royale des Sciences where he was finally able to immerse himself in his love of mathematics and science. Jean Paul and Louis had moved out of their bachelor lodgings in Paris and taken back residence at the home of their father. All the aristocrats of France were calling home their sons and clinging close to their daughters . . . for no one knew whose head would roll next. Priests, aristocrats, and anyone opposing the new Republic were now the enemies of a nation on fire with the ideals of freedom.
Christophé stopped short upon entering the room. He saw the desk where his father had sat . . . and sudden tears blinded him.
It had been dark that night when the four of them had whispered plans of escape and hiding. They were motioned to seat themselves across from the Count, wondering why their father was so intense and determined. There was only a branch of candelabra sitting on the desk giving them light. The flicker from the candles caught his face, casting it into shadows and then bringing it about again in sharp lines of jaw and hooded brow. The Count sat at his desk, pulled out some papers and then raked his dark, silver-stranded hair away from his forehead. He looked up at the three of them and sighed heavily.
“My sons.” He seemed to break and struggle, but the emotion was so quickly extinguished that Christophé couldn’t be sure it had ever existed. “This world you have inherited is not the same as any I have ever known.” He looked each of them in the eye.
Christophé followed his father’s gaze. Louis, rebellious and scoffing, his quick replies sounding throughout the room. Jean Paul, ill at ease, anxious and compliant to any plan that might save them. Christophé didn’t know how he appeared to the others, but a great upheaval was radiating from his heart into his quivering limbs and throat. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t despair over the old way of life suddenly snatched away. It was an odd mixture of excitement for the future . . . interlaced with despair over the destruction he felt sure was coming. All he knew for certain was that this family—this aristocratic family—would never be the same.
He’d been taught to hate the voice of the people. Who were they? He was supposed to think of them as working-class, ill-bred, uneducated peasants. They were nobodies, he’d been told, that had neither the intelligence, nor the wealth, nor the blue blood flowing through their veins to govern any more than a cow or a field. Perhaps, if they were bright enough, they could ply a trade or run a shop. Still, to have a real voice? To decide on the governing practices of a land so great as France? Never! It wasn’t possible.
So he’d been told.
But Christophé lowered his head from his father’s intense glare and knew he couldn’t echo his father’s convictions. He knew he was the only one in the room who thought that, despite it all, they were worthy.
No one need starve in silent, desperate misery.
Christophé looked up into his father’s shattered eyes and reminded himself that this man’s politics were liberal; he was just and well-liked. Perhaps he . . . they . . . might be spared. But his father’s voice echoed around the dark room assuring them that none of the past mattered anymore. They were aristocrats from birth, and the people of France believed they must be annihilated. There was a new invention—the guillotine. And it was created for their necks.
“There are hiding places in the chateau.” Their father took up a quill and began to draw. Several rooms appeared on the page, and he wrote their names above the boxes and then marked locations with an X. “Here, in the dining room.” He tapped on the paper. “There is a false back in the sideboard table. And here, in the blue salon, behind this painting is a safe.”
Christophé and his brothers nodded, their heads bent over the paper as he showed them three more. Then the Count pointed to a spot outside the rooms and drew a long line. “From here”—he pointed to another salon—“is a tunnel leading out into the gardens. You enter it by moving the bookcase. You will see the lever.” He looked at Christophé. “Check that it works for me.”
“I know the tunnel,” Louis admitted. “It works.”
His father looked ready to question, but apparently thought better of it. “Very well. There is one more thing.”
The three brothers sat up while their father leaned in. “If all else fails, if you have to run, there is an old castle on the southern border of France. In Carcassonne.”
“The Trenceval castle?” Jean Paul was the history lover in the family and had spoken of longing to see the castle many times.
“Yes. It’s in shambles, a ruin. But it is far from Paris and might be safe for a while.”
With that, their father said he was tired, rubbed his temples, and let out a long sigh. “Go to bed, my sons, and don’t forget to pray.”
Christophé pulled himself from thoughts of that day and led his sister deeper into the library. It was dark, empty, like the thudding feeling of emptiness in his chest. A soundless grate in the fireplace, an echo against the walls that would never again be filled with their happy voices, a darkness that no light could ever penetrate. It was over—
fini.
Their lives as they’d known it. There was only heaviness left. It filled his chest and his shoulders and he bowed his head. He didn’t know if he would ever really be able to raise his head again.
fini.
Their lives as they’d known it. There was only heaviness left. It filled his chest and his shoulders and he bowed his head. He didn’t know if he would ever really be able to raise his head again.
Christophé lit a candle on the desk and opened a side drawer where he found a sharp-edged tool. He walked over to a far wall, took firm grasp of either side of the painting’s frame, and lowered it to the floor. Behind it was a hidden door, small and disguised by the molding in the paneling. With the tool, he pried it open and plunged his hand inside.
It wasn’t there!
Christophé felt a stab of panic. What were they to do?
It wasn’t there!
Christophé felt a stab of panic. What were they to do?
Turning, he saw that Émilie had sunk to the floor, still blindfolded. She looked so stiff and scared—why hadn’t he thought to remove the cloth? As he knelt down beside her, he saw that silent tears were racing down her cheeks. He quickly untied the cloth. She did not look up at him.
Christophé grasped her shoulders and pulled her into his chest, whispering, “I’m sorry.” She clung to his shoulders, but did not speak, only kept hold as if in letting go she would dissolve into a million pieces. “We have to go,” Christophé finally whispered. “We have to try.” He pulled her up, but kept tight hold of her hand.
They crept down a dark hall, the candle a flickering light against the family portraits that hung like ancient memories. Their eyes watched them, demanding, it seemed, justice for the name St. Laurent.
They came into the main hall where the ceiling was high and domed and had always echoed back at their gleeful childish shouts. Christophé lifted the candle a little higher to see into the gloom.
A SHADOW MOVED with a suddenness that made him rear back, his arms spread to either side to protect his sister. The man that had murdered his family stood in the great hall, so still he might have been another statue.
A name rose to Christophé’s conscious—Maximilien Robespierre. Christophé’s heart leapt into his throat as their gazes locked. Panic had him backing away, grasping and then pulling Émilie along with him. They ran back the way they had come, booted footsteps right behind them. Christophé threw down the candle and pulled his sister faster, feeling her gasping breaths against his straining wrist.
Several steps and then he felt Émilie jerk as the man grasped her. Christophé swung out with his free hand, catching the man on the side of the head. He heard a surprised grunt, pulled Émilie’s hand, hearing her shriek, her cloak falling away as the man grabbed for her.
“Don’t give up,” he demanded in a hoarse whisper. “Run!” He screamed it through a tight and closed throat.
“Run!”
“Run!”
Down a narrow flight of stairs, the man just behind them, they reached the door. Christophé twisted the knob with curled, numb fingers. He pulled Émilie through just as Robespierre reached out for her again. He slammed the door hard, catching the thin man again, hearing another grunt and then a curse. He didn’t have time to bar the door, nor anything to bar it with, so he pulled hard on his sister’s hand and dragged her across the dark street.
The man was soon behind them, but they had gained a few seconds. Weaving into a narrow side street, Christophé guided them by instinct alone. He and his brothers had often explored the city around their palatial chateau. The streets were tight-packed with houses, businesses, and shops. He looked for the red door. The door of his friend.
Robespierre was turning into the side street where Christophé knew they would quickly be discovered. There was no time to find his friend, nor the red door. Émilie was wheezing with the effort to keep up. With a silent plea toward heaven he veered them into some thick bushes, pulled his sister down, and tried to regain his strength. “When he comes by, hold your breath,” he whispered into Émilie’s ear.
She nodded, her delicate chin catching against his hand.
Christophé watched as the man slowed, looked uncertainly into the deep shadows. He was walking now, winded too, peering from side to side in the dark street. He stopped, turned and turned and turned.
Right in front of them.
Christophé’s lungs felt ready to burst. He knew Émilie would not be able to hold her breath much longer. A few more seconds. That was all they had in this life-and-death moment. He looked up and began to pray. His lips moved silently over the words . . .
“Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen.”
The man turned again, toward them. Took a step and then another, peering into the bushes. Christophé’s heart thudded like the pounding of a drum. Émilie quivered from head to toe, he could almost hear her teeth rattle, but she did not breathe. Her chest was tight against his clasped hands. But she did not breathe!
The man was staring right at them!
Oh, please . . . God in heaven . . . save us!
A loud curse rang from the man as he pulled back and walked a little further down the street, his hand on his head as he searched every shadow on either side.
The sudden noise of horses turning into the street covered the sound of Émilie and Christophé letting out their breath and then gulping in air. Christophé felt dizzy, thinking he might pass out. But he couldn’t.
He had to save them. He had to save
her.
It was his duty now. As the last remaining male heir to the house of St. Laurent.
her.
It was his duty now. As the last remaining male heir to the house of St. Laurent.
It was his duty to save his family.
Chapter Two
1794—Carcassonne, France
The mist rose above the circle of the earth. The air was crisp, deadly quiet as it always was in the old graveyard at dawn. Christophé St. Laurent grasped his dark cloak against his chest with one fist, the other holding a knurled walking stick. He didn’t need it to walk—only to swirl the mist when the mood suited him.
His gaze tripped over the headstones as he passed.
Robert Barret, born 1732, died 1765.
A small stone. A short life, his. Madame Genevieve Montaigne rested on the laurels of goodwife to ten children, and yet not a plant or flower graced that simple edifice. And then there was Captain Fontaine, with a headstone so tall, the etching so old and proud, the moss so thick—a hero in some long-ago history lesson. Christophé’s lips grew taut as he contemplated the ghostly eulogies.
Robert Barret, born 1732, died 1765.
A small stone. A short life, his. Madame Genevieve Montaigne rested on the laurels of goodwife to ten children, and yet not a plant or flower graced that simple edifice. And then there was Captain Fontaine, with a headstone so tall, the etching so old and proud, the moss so thick—a hero in some long-ago history lesson. Christophé’s lips grew taut as he contemplated the ghostly eulogies.
A small yellow glow started on the horizon. He stopped his morning walk, stilling the clip of his heels to turn eastward and watch the second-by-second display of a planet’s rotation. It never failed to fill him with wonder and he found himself taking a deep breath, feeling the mist move into his mouth and throat and chest.
It was turning pink.
Joy rose from his chest to his throat. “Thy kingdom come,” he whispered into the fading mist. “Thy will be done.”
He turned, his pace brisk now, knowing the way like a child knows the path home. Energy flowed from the earth, through Newton’s gravity, to rise up from his legs and cause a sweat to break between the sharp planes of his shoulders. His legs pumped faster as a sense of power rushed through him.
He could run.
The thought struck him as new. He hadn’t allowed himself that freedom in so long. An image flashed across his memory—he and his brothers and sister running through an ornate garden . . . a palatial dream. He saw their bright faces in stark relief. The light was too bright. Something in him wanted to shield it away, but he couldn’t. Every blink brought a remembered face. His brother, Louis, with hair so dark and eyes that flashed back a challenge at him. Jean Paul, a year older than Christophé, quiet and solemn, quick and encouraging, quick as moonlight, but willing to forfeit the race to see any one of them smile.
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