Silence. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire on the hearth. Aurelie Antoine's hands trembled as she struggled to focus on the dainty crocheted lace beneath her fingers. In spite of the comforting warmth from the fire, she shivered. More from fear than from the cold. Fear of the inevitable—of impending disaster.
For months had she heard the gruesome, frightening tales of the aristocrats—marquis, dukes, vicomtes—even the royal family themselves—dragged from their homes. Thrown into dark and dirty dungeons. Heckled, starved, tortured until at last they were taken into the public square and forced to mount the steps of the guillotine.
Aurelie was an aristocrat. A duke's daughter. This was the reason for her fear. She loved her country, loved her king and queen, loved life. That is, she loved the life that had been. The life that was no more. Bright, gilded ballrooms. The soft frou-frou of silk dresses on a marble floor. The tinkle of the harpsichord and the gentle strains of the violin. Flickering candlelight. Laughter and music.
The room in which Aurelie now sat was bare and empty. Less than three months had passed since the cruel, angry mob had ransacked the once beautiful home. Gold and silver, priceless antiques, works of art, all had been carried away or destroyed. The servants had fled in fear. Aurelie would never forget the terror of that night. The raucous laughter of the peasants as they clambered through the gilded halls. The crash of broken glass. Her mother's screams. Aurelie had knelt by her father's side after he collapsed to the ground in agony. Tears in her eyes, she had clung to his hand as he breathed his last. Not more that a week later, she knelt by her mother's bedside, her heart breaking. A delicate, gentle woman, used to luxury and peace, her mother had died for sorrow. Aurelie was alone now. Alone except for old Marie, her nursemaid. Marie had stayed of love for her aristocratic mistress—out of peril for her own life.
A quiet knock came on the door, splintered and dented by the angry fists of peasants.
"Entrez," Aurelie called softly. Slowly the door swung open on battered hinges and Marie's wrinkled, kindly face appeared.
"Would Mademoiselle like her supper?" she spoke with a curtsey. Although Aurelie was the only member of the family left, although she and Marie lived alone, in hiding, although everything was destroyed that once was, the faithful old servant insisted on serving her young mistress as she always had.
"Oui, Marie. I thank you." As the maid curtseyed and backed out the door, Aurelie laid aside her handwork with an impatient sigh and leaned back in the hard, straight-backed chair. She allowed her dark eyes to wander restlessly over the room. The four-poster bed—its canopy torn down and the feather mattress torn by knives and bayonets, the rickety washstand with the chipped bowl, the cracked vase of wildflowers on the mantle. Those flowers were the only bright spot in a room filled with heartache and pain. Fresh in their dainty beauty, their untarnished petals filled Aurelie's heart with a sense of calm. They seemed to tell her, "Fear not, all is well."
Aurelie smiled to herself. Even the terrorists in their raging hatred and cruelty could not stop the beauty of spring. The Lord in His infinite kindness and mercy had allowed the gentle grass, flowers, and leaves to hide the scars of the war-torn French countryside. In this one thing—the fresh spring breezes, the song of the birds, the perfume of the wildflowers—Aurelie was able to forget. Aye, forget all the terror of this evil, God-forsaken revolution.
"Tiens, Cherie." Marie's gentle voice interrupted the young girl's thoughts. "Here is your supper. See, Jacques has brought by bread and cheese, and here is a bit of milk."
"Merci, Marie." Aurelie accepted her meagre repast with a cheerful smile. "Join me, please." And she bowed her head with its glossy crown of dark hair to murmur a quiet prayer of thanksgiving.
"Cher Dieu, je te remercie pour tes bénédictions. Soyez avec nous et gardez-nous à l'abri de ceux qui nous souhaitent du mal. Au nom de ton Fils, Amen."
"Oui," Marie echoed. "Keep us safe from those who wish us harm." She looked at her young mistress, with tender love in her eyes. "Mademoiselle, have you heard the news?"
"Good news?" Aurelie asked, a tremor in her voice.
"Oui, mon Cherie. Listen. The Marquis de Tryons and his family, remember they were imprisoned last week?"
"Le bon Dieu have mercy!" Aurelie breathed, her face white.
"They were spirited away out of the tumbril which bore them even then to the guillotine." Marie continued, her eyes wide. "Report has it they were seen safe in England."
"In England?" Aurelie cried. "Blest haven of freedom! But—how?" Marie shrugged her thin shoulders.
"No one knows for certain. Yet, it is said that mysterious English hero—"
"The Scarlet Pimpernel!" Aurelie breathed. "Ah, how I thank God for this angel in disguise! Surely le bon Dieu sent him to us in this our hour of need!"
Fain would she have said more but she stopped, suddenly, her face drained of color. Her hands shook perceptibly and she clasped them together to hide her nervousness.
"Mademoiselle?" Marie cried out in sudden fear. "What is it?"
"I—don't know," Aurelie murmured, rising from her chair. Silence reigned in the little room as both women strained to hear. A sound, far away, like the distant roar of a crowd. Closer and closer it came, terrifyingly close. Aurelie placed a hand over her beating heart. Marie folded her wrinkled hands, murmuring prayers through trembling lips. Time seemed to stand still. A terrible clatter sounded at the front door.
"Ca ira!"
"Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite!"
"A la lanterne, aristos!"
The shouts of an angry, vengeful mob. With a half-strangled cry of fear, Marie shrank into the corner. Aurelie was frozen, immobile, as if in a trance. She did not move. Tramping feet and blasphemous cries filled the air, coming closer to the room where the two women hid. At last, the splintered door gave way, the room filling with dirty ragged peasants, mingled with soldiers who wore the dreaded tricolor cockades on their hat-brims.
"Down with the aristos!" they screamed. Aurelie still did not flinch. Her slim, girlish figure clad in simple, sky-blue linen, stood tall with pride in every fiber of her being. How she held courage, she never knew, as she was surrounded and seized by the soldiers, dragged from the room. She heard Marie's cries but could not see her. Strange in this dreaded moment that she should have such calm. It was as if she knew, had been prepared for the final moment. She had known it was inevitable, that it would surely come. The end was here now.
"God give me strength!" she whispered as she was marched through the gates of her home. She strained to catch a last glimpse of the vast mansion where she had been so happy. Here she had been born. Here she had known love and laughter, joy and sorrow. Here had she played with her cousins, here had she seen her mother and father die. And now she was being taken away—to die. And yet she felt at peace in spite of her inner terror. Soon she would be with her beloved parents.