However, Claude did not leave Blanchard for Marceau.
Night swept over the city, and a shadow made its way through the alleys. It hid behind walls and under windows, with only a fleeting shade of blue remaining behind it, dragging in the snow.
It was a silent ascent.
Notre Dame was alone, her walls forgotten, her bells still. A shadow came to her, and it caressed her masonry. She felt it only faintly, a distant touch, but the presence was unmistakable.
She said nothing to the bishop.
As Blanchard walked the centre aisle, his eyes peered through the dim. The candles now low, their wicks only barely lit, he could see only shadows. Only silhouettes of saints and whispers of faith, but that did not hinder him. He strove forward, searching. Searching.
The dark followed.
Clutching his staff in one hand, the bishop reached the opposite forward. It stroked the stone, making the Church shiver. He smirked; his eyes were alight with secrets as he thrust a stone aside. The wall moved, and she groaned.
The bishop stepped forward.
Claude caught his shoulder.
"Be silent," he murmured, his grip becoming sharp. The bishop remained still, but his face churned in frustration. Then, it grew into mocking laugh.
"Assassin!" he yelled, his anger spilling over his words, "I knew this day would come!"
"No one can hear you," Claude responded, letting the bishop jerk away from his glove, "Only la dame."
"You are too late!" he spat, defacing the church, "The bet has been won, the dice cast!"
"You mean Napoleon?" Claude replied, his identity hidden in the shadow of his hood, his blue sash tumbling at his side.
"Non, he is unimportant now, yet to be sacrificed for the Father,"
Claude pressed forward, "What do you speak of, templar? Riddles are no use to you now,"
"Maybe not," he agreed, "but my staff is!"
Blanchard flung himself at Claude, the symbolic ornament in his hands now a weapon. Claude ducked away, his speed his advantage. Blanchard did not pause; he pressed forward, the long instrument swung ahead of him.
The crash of metal shattered in la dame's ears, the staff colliding with the rigid stone. Claude's movements allowed him to dart back and forth from Blanchard's offense, but the power of his blows made Claude cautious. Blanchard roared, the rough sound scraping at the stone like fingernails. Again, the staff was swung only to miss its target and crash into the benches of the congregation, splintering the wood.
Claude's hand wove into his sash, searching for his dagger. It flashed as he withdrew it, the light glaring into the bishop's eyes and making him momentarily blind. Claude threw himself into the flurry of the staff, barely dodging the bishop's blind swings. The dagger thirsted for blood.
La Dame wept, her body trembling.
They stopped, their heads both turning. The door the bishop had opened had begun to shut, and the movement rattled their bodies as the vibrations carried throughout the church. The bishop cried out, his hands dropping the staff. Claude hesitated, but then pursued the bishop as he scrambled to make his way through the doors.
Claude lunged forward.
The bishop reached for the door.
The dagger fell. And it drank.