Epilogue
1796
June 6th
9:00 p.m.
The last bit of Thomas's wine slipped from the bottle into Leona's glass.
"Thank you sir," she said.
"A Lafite wine, from my personal stash at Monticello," said Thomas.
"A very fine addition," said Leona.
"Yes, but it is a shame that the revolution claimed Nicholas Pierre de Pichard. Let's hope that the next owners are capable of producing the same quality."
"Yes, I'm sure the Château Lafite Rothschild will be in good hands."
"But their prices, lord, it seems a wonder that they are able to stay in business."
"Well, imagine what they'll be paying for a bottle of this in a few hundred years," Leona laughed.
"Pennies," said Thomas, smiling. Leona raised her glass.
"To your health," said Leona. Thomas mimicked her.
"And to yours as well," replied Thomas, and they both took draughts from their cups. "So, the Apple is with this Bonaparte fellow…"
"Yes."
"Templar allegiance?"
"Unconfirmed, as of yet, but we believe so. We expect that they will try to take advantage of the power vacuum that Robespierre left." Leona drummed her hands on the table. "So, have you had any progress of freeing Lafayette?"
"We are making progress, but at this time, it's impossible to determine when he will walk as a free man. I am sorry."
"No, no; that we are making progress is a miracle in itself."
"Yes." Thomas took another drink of wine. "Speaking of absent members, where is your friend Gaspar?" Leona then took a long drink.
"He's gone."
"Gone?"
"Gone."
"Do you know where?"
"No," Leona lied.
"Is he going to be a contingency that needs to be dealt with?" Leona took a long deep look into her glass.
"It's too soon to tell," she said, and finished her wine.
June 7th
French Guiana
12:00 a.m.
Jean Marie Collot d'Herbois stumbled into his beach hut, drunk. He had been out at one of the bars in Cayenne, spouting some revolutionary nonsense, but someone convinced him that it was time to go home, to which he agreed. As he held on to of the ceiling support logs, he noticed he was not alone in his hut. A man dressed in all black sat in a corner of the room with a cloak hiding his face. There was a table next to the man, and upon it was a cylindrical object that was covered with a cloth. Herbois thought for a moment.
"Charles, or do you go by Gaspar these days? I can never remember." Gaspar stayed motionless. "Sorry about your family," he coughed, "it was just business, as you are well aware. Thanks for stealing my diary." He coughed again. Herbois felt some of his muscles tightening strangely. Gaspar said nothing. "If it is any consolation, I am sorry about the pain that I've brought y…" He hacked violently. He felt at his throat. It was tightening as well. "So, what can I do for you?" he asked, his voice raspy. Herbois could feel his limbs locking up. "Information? Memories? Your wife's final words? My life?" he said, and then slumped to the floor, paralyzed. His other senses remained, however, and he heard Gaspar rise from his chair, and he slowly slid into his field of vision.
"What I want, Monsieur Herbois, is for you to be silent for a time," said Gaspar. "And if that requires the use of a paralyzing agent that I've picked up on my travels, then so be it." Gaspar kneeled down and removed his hood.
"I have been waiting for six years to get this opportunity, to wrap my fingers around your neck, to see the life leave your eyes as I choke the last bit of air from your lungs. What you did was monstrous, and deserves something monstrous in return. But arriving here now, at the end of this long journey, I have come to realize that your death would not bring me the peace that I thought it would. You and your kind are just a symptom of the illness. And I hope to someday heal that illness, but your blood will get me nowhere. You are a waste of my time." Gaspar stood in silence, looking at the man that lay upon the floor. "The drug is something I found in my travels, from the organs of the pufferfish. It causes paralysis one hour after ingestion. You should only be experiencing paralysis if I mixed the doses right. However, Japanese is one hell of a language to decipher. You know, you really shouldn't accept drinks from strangers." Gaspar paused.
"Nothing to say? I understand. It is a lot to take in," he said, rolling his pants down inside his boots. "If you could speak, you'd probably ask you'd probably ask why I am here, if not to kill you. And that is a very fair question, my friend." He rolled his sleeves up into his gloves and tied them there. "My journey for vengeance has been satisfied. Now, I am an instrument of the needy, both big" he said, rolling pieces of cloth around his face until none of his skin was touching air, "and small." He walked back to the table and brought back the cylindrical object. He removed the cloth that had concealed the glass jar and held it above Herbois's face. "A local nuisance, I'm told. But they hunger, and so I am to oblige," he said, and then dropped the jar out of Herbois's sight. Then, Herbois saw his hut fill with several hundred tiny insects. They flew wildly around the room, and Herbois saw one crawl upon his frozen eye.
'Mosquitoes!' Herbois screamed inside his head. He felt other areas of his body being descended upon by the bugs. Gaspar leaned to look him once more in the eyes. They stared back at him, blankly. "Au revoir, Monsieur Herbois," said Gaspar, and took his leave of the hut. Upon exiting, he checked the windows, making sure that he had sealed them well. Content in his work, he strode over to his horse that he had hidden in the shadows, mounted it, and rode away, its hoof prints disappearing as the wind blew the sand across the beach.