An idea I had to show just how badly Marguerite had hurt the two men who loved her.
Marguerite
Our Separate Ways
She was gone.
He did not have the heart to face it, nor the will to believe it, but it was true. Where once she was there, she was now gone. What had he done, or not done, to lose her, that perfect jewel? His very own piece of heaven was snatched away from him right under his nose, and he could do nothing to stop it, nothing to bring her back. And what had she left him for? An Englishman, an aristocrat, no less, and a very rich one at that.
Chauvelin leaned his head against the window of his office, staring blankly out into the square where the guillotine stood tall, surrounded by an angry mob that seemed ready to rip the victim apart if the National Razor did not do so soon. He was usually thrilled to see justice done, to witness his enemies cut down to nothing, the death of each one giving more freedom to the people, more weight to the Republic, but today, they had done nothing for him at all; just another spectacle of just another day. No, not just another day; today he did not have her…
Why? How had that happened? He had never seen it coming, noticed no signs that their relationship was falling apart. It had been a dream, beautiful, perfect, just like the woman he shared it with. She was young, he a good deal older, but they shared the same vision, the same fire, the same hope for a new, better world that he – they – were working side by side to create. How could she leave him? Leave him and abandon the dream, the country, the ideals that had become a reality. And for what? She turned her back on everything they had worked so hard to create for the enemy, an aristocrat, one of the very people that she herself had once claimed to hate, and that he was English made it no better.
He should have noticed that something was wrong when the lovely thing began to become distracted about six weeks ago, should have taken note of the way she now swooned and sighed whilst staring out at nothing, things she would only do for him before. He should have seen the light, that glorious sparkle of light in her eyes grow distant as she slowly became so. But how could he have noticed those small signs when she would still throw herself in his arms whenever she did see him. He could not have, not when she would still hold him, not when she would still kiss him, and certainly not when she would still let him take her to his bed.
Of course, all of that was becoming less frequent as the revolution progressed and Chauvelin was needed to help guide its course. And the lovely thing that was once his began to see less and less of him, hold on to him desperately when she did see him for fear that she would lose him. But Chauvelin did not see it, could not hear her desperate pleading and calling for attention that she so badly needed, not when the shouts and cries for freedom rang through the air and deafened him to her.
It should have come as no surprise to him when he had found her in her salon, sighing over a letter that she had received from some admirer, or when she refused his company when he had finally found the time, for she had a prior engagement. It had merely confused him, hurt him a bit, perhaps, but he hadn't really taken it to be anything serious, had not noticed it as the tell-tale sign that it was. But how could he have been? He was simply too blinded by love for her to see a change in her disposition, to notice that something was amiss, or to gather that she had found someone else.
Of course, he had never really said that he loved her, he had just assumed that something like that was far better said silently, that words as weak as those put the feelings he had for her to shame. He had thought that the look of unparalleled admiration that his gold eyes held whenever he gazed upon her lovely form was enough to convey that she meant the world to him. Apparently, that was not the case. Apparently, she needed to hear it as well. Apparently, she had found someone that would say it. And it was not Chauvelin.
It was but a few days ago that he had seen her kissing another man, and it came as such a shock to him that he had forgotten to breathe, forgotten to feel anything at all but the piercing pain in his chest where he was certain that something had died. The rest of that day had been intolerable as he could not think, could not sit still, could hardly function at all. The bitter loneliness and desperation that held him quickly dissolved into fury, and he had left the office long before he was due to and stormed into her salon, the lovely woman noticeably absent, no doubt still with the man that he had seen her with earlier.
Against his better judgement, he had searched through her drawers, looked through everything she owned to find a nearly sickening amount of love letters amongst her possessions, all signed in the same hand by a certain Sir Percy. He had read them all several times, allowing each work to strike through him and make him hurt all the more and making the fire within him grow all the more fierce.
By the time the softly, happily humming girl entered, Chauvelin had worked himself into a rage that he had never felt in his entire life, and he had instantly pounced upon the girl, firmly and fiercely demanding answers. He had hardly given her time to respond to the harshly accusing questions of how long she had been playing two men, how long before she had the decency to tell him so, how she could leave him, how she could possibly want another after he had been so damn loyal to her for all that time.
It was then she had told him that she was to marry the Englishman that very week, and she was to leave France for England on the morrow, and Chauvelin could not speak. It was really over. And suddenly then with the power of hindsight did he manage to see how obvious the signs were, how clear it had been that she would leave him, how blatant it was that he was losing her. And she would have never told him. One day, she would have just been gone, and he would have been left in a desperate panic, frantically searching for his love and wondering where she had gone without the faintest clue as to anything. At least this way, he knew that he had lost…
Without a thought as to what he was doing, he seized her and firmly kissed her, only to be pushed away. He had told her that he loved her then, desperate, bitter tears at the corners of his eyes, and for a moment he had thought that he had seen love in those beautiful eyes of hers, a sudden longing and yearning to be with him. But just when he thought that she may rush into his arms, she had turned away from him, whispered that she did not feel the same, that she never had, and ordered him out with the wish that he would not disturb her again. It was over...
He was stunned, his entire world shattered, for he had so surely thought that his confession of how he felt for her was all she wanted, was all that was needed to turn her away from her hasty decision to marry. But no, that was clearly not the case; he had truly lost. The hopelessness turned to rage, and that rage fuelled his decision to manipulate the woman into getting what he wanted. He had threatened to tell her future husband of her relationship with him and he noticed in malicious glee how her eyes widened in fear; for surely this Sir Percy did not know of him, as the clever little woman had kept even her lover in the dark about the little double game that she had been playing. She got on her knees and begged, pleaded that he say nothing, for she would do anything.
His request that she stop this silly game of marriage of hers was met with a look of scorn and contempt, and the quick refute that she would rather Percy know than not marry the baronet, which only fuelled his rage all the more. His keen mind running with ideas, he had slyly demanded the location of the Marquis de St. Cyr and his family, for the woman knew all too well where they were and was intent on keeping the family out of the revolution's path, if for only to save the lives of the wife and children, for she had no love of them. She had looked at him in disbelief, but his returned gaze of utter seriousness made her see the firmness of his resolve. She softly answered with promise that she would have their denunciation for him tomorrow, provided that the family not be harmed. And he gave her his word and left.
The next day, Chauvelin had closed down the theater where Marguerite worked in the middle of her final performance before she was off to England. He had met with her and mercilessly tormented the woman, gently reminding her that they had some unfinished business and she had handed him the note, and gently told him that she hated him and wished to never see him again. He had, of course, brushed this off, and he was off immediately to arrest the family, and every last St. Cyr was executed that very afternoon.
It was only then, as he sat by that window, that he realized that she was really gone, out of his life forever. Well, maybe not forever, but she was gone, and that was shocking. He had never thought it could happen, as they went together so well, had loved each other so much, and it was beastly unfair that she should be stolen from him like that. And she hated him, oh God, she hated him…
But, oh, how he loved her. His entire body ached, and he leaned his head against the cold glass, breathing unsteady and ragged. Yes, he loved her, but perhaps too little, and perhaps too late, and even telling her so made no difference at all, and now that she was gone, there was nothing he could do to ease the pain that he so deeply felt. Tensing, he choked as bitter tears fell onto the windowpane, and he sat alone in his misery, just as he would remain for as long as he lived.
And every face is bittersweet when every face is Marguerite.