A/N Warning for language, threat, and physical violence of a somewhat disturbing nature. Sorry…
Hope you enjoy!
Chapter Forty-one
The morning chill seemed to seep through Enjolras' bones, stiffening his limbs until he felt stuck in place. He rolled his shoulders, blew on his cold hands. He had to stay alert. Careful to conceal his golden timepiece he checked the time - seven o'clock.
It was the morning of Rene's execution, the day that they would bring revolution to the city, to the country; maybe to the world. Yet for a day with such glorious purpose, it seemed filled with inane activities. The last few hours of the night had been spent moving the weapons from the Musain to various stockpiles around the city, doling out the munitions to each of the dozen or so groups that had been formed and spread to every corner of Paris. Giles had disappeared with a team of ten or so men, giving no explanation as to where he was going except that 'it was crucial to the success of everything', whatever that meant.
Enjolras shivered, wrapping his long coat tighter around him, the garment torn and dirty to allow him to blend in with the crowd that was slowly forming. He caught a glimpse of Feuilly leant against a wall, cap pulled low over his eyes. He saw the crowd part to allow Bahorel's bulk to pass through, the fighter hiding his scared knuckles in his pockets along with a pistol. Like a net the revolutionaries were surrounding the wooden platform of the gallows, a single unit focused on one thing only: rescuing Rene, at any cost.
And yet…and yet he felt so very alone, empty, hollow. He remembered Bahorel's look a disappointment, Courfeyrac's anger, and Combeferre's weary acceptance. What had become of the bright, brave, young men looking to save the world? What had he done to them?
A mutter sounded from the now large crowd as National Guardsmen appeared to cut a road through the people, pushing and shoving with their muskets, apprehension of what was to come making them carelessly violent.
Enjoras gripped his hand tighter around the smooth grip of the pistol in his pocket, finger hovering over the dog-head, ready and eager to begin. Anything to dispel the corrosive doubt infecting his blood.
When a hand landed on his shoulder he startled in tense surprise, his body wired to fight or flee as necessary. Action of any kind was unnecessary for it was only Combeferre; or rather it was Combeferre and a quivering young gamin, eyes bright with excitement but gasping for breath.
"Tell him what you told me," Combeferre instructed tersely, giving no explanation of any kind.
"I have a message," the boy panted, "off of this bloke…said his name was Grantaire...said to come straight to you."
The mention of the cynic's name caught Enjolras' full attention. Thinking back, he had not seen nor heard anything from Grantaire since late the night before when he had strutted out of the Musain to the sound of Shakespeare.
"Don't tell me he's 'got other plans' for today," he said, tone dry enough to border on cruel.
"He said for me to tell you that," the boy took a breath, face scrunched up in concentration, "there is a mole in the ranks…but that the Guard don't know the full plan, only numbers…and to be on your guard." Message delivered the child melted away into the crowd, the weight of the coin Combeferre had slipped him assuring him of a full belly that night.
Panic pulsed through Enjolras, too bright and scalding, drowning out all reasonable thought. A mole in the ranks…
"It was Aimee," he murmured. "She was the mole!"
Combeferre silently caught his breath, once again unable to reconcile the man before him – face now twisted in bitter anger – with his friend and fellow revolutionary. Gripping Enjolras' coat, hard enough to tear the rotten seams, he yanked him away.
"What the hell are you raving about now!" he hissed, slamming the man who looked like his friend against the wall. He could hear the drums now, the ominous rattle of the execution march.
Shock appeared in Enjolras' eyes and for a moment he looked like himself again: wide-eyed, young, a little uncertain, but with a good soul shining through. But before he could make sense of what he saw, the windows slammed closed and Combeferre watched as a stranger pulled out of his grasp.
"Don't you think," he demanded, "that it is a little bit too much of a coincidence that no more than three days after Aimee disappears on the arm of some bourgeoisie bastard that all of our plans are leaked to the enemy?"
"I think you forget yourself" Combeferre replied coldly. "We are not in a war, Enjolras. There is no enemy. We are trying to save our country from corrupt managers; we are not on a martyr-like killing spree here."
"Are you really so naive?" Enjolras let out a bark of laughter. "Do they look like they are on our side?" He pointed over Combeferre's shoulder to where Rene, his hands tied in front of him, was being pushed none too gently onto the gallows by two uniformed Guardsmen. "They are hanging him, Combeferre, after some sodding excuse of a trial, for trying to remove those corrupt managers of whom you speak so mildly. They are not even giving him the respect of a quick death via Madam Guillotine. They are the enemy and it appears my former amour is happily working with them and has been all along."
"So what is your plan then?" Combeferre felt real anger quicken in his mild breast. "Are we just supposed to slaughter them all? Begin another reign of terror, just as Sharpe said we would?"
The rattle of the drums was deafening now; the rope was being placed around Rene's neck, the hemp catching briefly on the knot of his gag. The powers that be were more intelligent than to allow him to speak before his execution, knowing it would only give him a chance to preach his poisonous ideals one last time.
"I will do whatever is necessary!" Enjolras roared.
Le Faucon raised his eyes to heaven, his dark hair ruffled by a slight breeze, a dried trail of blood on his temple a rusty condemnation - the perfect figure of martyrdom.
The priest read the final rites perfunctorily, his small eyes darting nervously around the square as if he could sense the violence hovering in the heart of each and every man present. The concealed rebels tightened their grips on their weapons. The sun itself hid from the scene, draping itself in a murky shroud of low-hanging cloud, dirty grey and ominous.
Combeferre watched as his friend, his brother in all but blood, stalked away into the crowd, the threat of death hanging from his shoulders like a cape. Never had he seemed so terrible, so terrifying.
Without a thought for himself, Enjolras pushed through the crowd, pistol cocked and half-drawn, his heart beating with hopeless anger. "Vive l'France!" he howled, levelling his pistol at the soldier with his hand on the lever that would release the ratchet and send Rene to his death.
It was then that the first explosion ripped through the air.
It was sheer exhaustion that had driven Aimee to sleep upon arriving back at The Patron's residence. And yet her sleep was far from peaceful; a heady cocktail of fear and sprays of scarlet, screams and the crushing weight of grief in her chest.
She was awakened by the sound of a distant, dull roar followed by the unpleasant sensation of falling, her unconscious struggles having moved her to the edge of the bed and beyond. Her first sound was a sob of fear, any pride that remained in her cut open and drained as quickly and easily as her father had been, his life pouring out from between her fingers as she tried to close the gaping wound in his throat inflicted by The Patron's lethally sharp stiletto knife.
She huddled by the bed, arms around her knees, shivering in her petticoats despite the fire burning in the grate. She tried to think of Enjolras, of the Amis working together as one as they prepared for battle, but her thoughts always led back to their deaths and destruction - be that in the name of liberty, equality, and fraternity or by the hand of The Patron's assassin concealed in their midst.
A knock sounded at the door and she stiffened instinctively...until it occurred to her that her jailer had never knocked, not once, barging in and out of her room as the mood took him. Stumbling to her feet she risked a glance in the huge gilded mirror that hung from the opposite wall. One look at the dark circles beneath her eyes, the startlingly vivid bruises on her face, throat, and arms and she was forced to look away. The ache of loss in her chest was a perfectly adequate reminder of her fragility - seeing this ghost was unnecessary.
The knock sounded again and Aimee realized that the person was waiting for permission to enter. Turning away from the mirror she cleared her throat, startled at the dryness she found there.
"Come in," she rasped, wincing and reaching for the crystal decanter of water sat on the dresser, her hand pausing for a moment as she considered the possibility that it might be drugged. The memory of laudanum being forced down her screaming throat as she battled to escape the arms encircling her, her father's blood wet on her hands and clothes, still burnt fresh in her memory like a newly applied brand. However, thirst overcame fear and she had nearly drained her second glass by the time a tiny slip of a maid had battled with the heavy door and peered nervously into the room.
"Good morning, MademoiselleLyon," she squeaked, laying the dress she carried - an expensive-looking but plain dark blue damask - on the bed and dipping a brief curtsy.
Aimee waved off her shows of propriety, seeing only the fear drawn tight into every line of the girl's body; she couldn't have been more than fourteen or fifteen.
"There is no need for such titles with me," she said, sitting wearily on the edge of the bed. "Call me, Aimee."
"I'm Alzema," the girl replied, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "I have been asked to help you dress."
The name caught at some memory in Aimee's mind, like a loose thread being inadvertently tugged, but she shook it off as unimportant. "The Patron has requested my presence for breakfast?" she asked, knowing full well that the request masqueraded as a command, one that if disobeyed would have severe consequences.
Alzema nodded meekly, obviously afraid of her employer. "He picked out the dress for you specially," she added, as if the small detail would make her feel more at ease. It had the complete opposite effect however. The very thought of her clothing being picked out for her by her father's murderer, a job that should be awarded to only herself or a lover, made her stomach burn with nausea and helpless rage.
She wanted to howl and scream until her throat was raw. She wanted to break every object that held any worth to him before his eyes. She wanted to see fear, real, honest fear tear apart his affectation of superiority. She wanted to destroy him…but she could not. He held every card; he was the puppet-master with a string on every finger. If it was only her own life held in the balance she would gladly take her chances and make a bid for freedom. But he had a thread tied to every person she held dear, a thread that could in the blink of an eye transform into a quiet blade in the back, a stray pistol shot, or the threat of capture, torture, and execution. He had no morals; no qualms about taking a life…her father's cold corpse stood testament to that.
And so she stayed, silent and stiff as Alzema helped her into the dress, pulling laces tight and fastening buttons. She ignored the indecent sweep of the bodice, said not a word as the bruises were covered with powder and cream. She had become just another object in his collection, a statue riddled with cracks and fault lines of grief and rage, fear and loss, these only adding to his pleasure of possession.
The dining table could easily have seated over a dozen people but this morning it was set for only two. The Patron was sat at the head of the table, the seat directly to his right held out for her by a liveried servant.
As she was escorted in by Montparnasse, The Patron's personal bodyguard, he glanced up from his newspaper and gave her another of his disarmingly sane grins.
"Good morning, Amorette my dear. Did you sleep well?" He waved a hand and another servant brought forward a silver tray laden with food, standing silently by as she was seated. "I'm sure you are hungry; you have not eaten for quite some time."
She eyed the food – fruit, bread, preserves and she could see cheeses and cold meats on the sideboard – warily. It was true. She had not had a proper meal since before the performance nearly two days ago, sitting with Margo in her kitchen eating vegetable soup and rough brown bread warm from the baker's oven. Though she had been put through this theatre the night before, choking down a few pieces of still bloody beef and some vegetables, most of that had ejected from her stomach as she watched her father die.
Without another word she took a few pieces of ripe peach and some bread, nodding in thanks as she was poured a cup of coffee. Montparnasse helped himself to an apple and leant against the wall to slowly dissect it, his sharp eyes never still, flicking between the doorway and her, his employer and the window, the servant and the doorway again.
There was silence as she ate, cutting the peach into manageable pieces and forcing herself to swallow, knowing that her stomach would thank her later. The Patron seemed intent on ignoring her, totally engrossed in his paper, so when he spoke she startled a little.
"It seems that there has been a warning put out by Inspector Javert for people to be alert for any rebel activity," he intimated, taking a delicate sip of his coffee. "Here, I'll read you a bit: 'Due to certain information received, it is believed that activities of a most insidious nature – oh, insidious I like it – are being concocted by certain persons in the city of Paris. The capture of the foul rebel known only by the pseudonym Le Faucon has been a devastating blow to the rebels' plans. His execution shall be a message…' I say, my dear are you alright?"
Aimee had erupted into a choking fit from a piece of rogue peach upon hearing of Rene's capture and imminent execution. A blurred memory came to her of Grantaire mentioning something about Le Faucon being imprisoned but at the time it had made very little sense to her. Now fear filled her once again, fear for her lover, fear for her friends. How would they continue without Rene? And with an informer in their ranks as well? Tears threatened to fall as she let loose a desperate prayer for her family, for they were her family: 'Bring them home Heavenly Father. Please bring them home safely.'
"All better?" he asked, dismissing the hovering servant. "Good. We really must improve your manners; they appear to have slipped somewhat from your contact with those school-boys and their accompanying riff-raff. Now where was I…ah yes, 'His execution shall be a message to prove that the both the police and the Crown will not stand for subversive behaviour intended to damage the structure of our most noble country.'" He folded the paper away, a proud smirk on his thin lips. "An excellently written piece, wouldn't you agree?"
She was saved from having to give any form of answer by a frantic pounding at the front door, the sound echoing through the cavernous house.
The Patron pulled out his watch, frowning minutely at it. "The carriage isn't supposed to come until half past eight," he murmured. "It's only quarter to. Montparnasse, go and deal with it, please."
Montparnasse pushed away from the wall and did as he was bidden, tossing his mutilated apple core to one of the footmen as he went.
"You know," The Patron began, in a conversational tone, "I'm rather looking forwards to this whole revolution incident. So much fervour and patriotism and…" he struggled for a word, "so much…blind faith." He shrugged lightly and went back to buttering a croissant. "Not that they have a hope in hell of victory, I'm making sure of that, but it is somewhat inspiring to watch them try – like a bug trying to outrun the shoe that crushes it."
"What do you have to gain or lose in all of this?" Aimee couldn't help but ask. His actions were such a continuous enigma to her; his interest in the Amis and the revolution was somewhat baffling.
"A very large building contract." He seemed delighted to have her interest. "The whole of St Michele redeveloped…and guess who has an invested interest in the construction companies?"
She could not help the flow of indignant words that rolled off her tongue. "But you'll be taking the only home that those people have, thousands of them!"
He seemed amused at her sudden outburst. "What care do I have for them?" he asked. "Their fate is of no interest to me. They can live or die…I really don't care."
"Do you truly hate them so much?" She thought of the people she had met and come to know, seen by many as the lowest of the low, but filled with so much determination and love. "Why are you so intent on destroying them?"
"Are you not listening, you hysterical bitch!" he snapped, lunging forwards across the space between them. "I don't care. I don't hate them, I don't weep over them, I don't care. I have no vendetta against the great unwashed, there is no deep-seated and inexplicable hatred towards the lower classes instilled in me from my silver-spooned infancy…I just don't care."
"Sir?" Montparnasse had reappeared, a creased missive in hand, a large and official-looking seal marking the back of the letter with a bullet-hole of scarlet wax.
The Patron snatched the letter and tore it open, a frown creasing his forehead as he rapidly read. Without a word he launched to his feet, hurrying from the room, and his voice could soon be heard echoing through the entrance hall.
Upon catching Montparnasse fixing her with an eerie stare Aimee stared at the tablecloth, her eyes catching briefly on the sharp-edged knife laid by her plate. Feeling her heart rate double she reached for it as inconspicuously as possible, certain at any moment that the deadly dandy standing only a few feet away would catch onto her plan and tell The Patron. The consequences of such a flagrantly subversive action she did not wish to discover.
Her hand shot back under the table as her captor strode back into the room, his manner disgruntled, his sharp movement of dismissal to the staff an indication of his simmering rage.
"It appears our plans for departure need to be moved up," he said tightly, turning to Montparnasse. "Send a message that I want the carriage sent round in ten minutes with the fastest horses hitched up. We will need to move quickly with the city descending into carnage."
Aimee could not help but react to his words. If the city was going mad then that could only mean one thing…
He turned to her next. "Your amoureux de la liberté appears to have released the horse from the gate, so to speak, earlier than I anticipated." He crashed his fist down on the table hard enough to send a plate clattering to the floor, the fine china shattering. "Damn him!" he roared.
She sat silent, desperately hoping that his wrath would not be directed at her next. What had happened?
As if he heard her mental question he leant in close to her, hissing each word through his teeth. "Enjolras and his little groups of witless followers have just set off an explosion at Le Faucon's execution. The square was decimated; dozens are dead. The rebel leader escaped and the whole situation is being blamed on the monarchy as an attempt to wipe out the revolutionaries which has, of course, sent the city into an uproar." He whirled away, one hand finding its way into his slicked hair, displacing the elegant style. "How did I not know about this? How could I have missed this?"
For the first time in what felt like years, Aimee felt a smile curl her lips. "They outwitted you," she said slowly, her words reaching out to lash him like a whip.
Her voice made him stiffen with rage and, whirling, he landed a firm slap across her face. The blow did nothing to remove the disbelieving smile sitting on her face along with an expression that looked too much like hope.
"You dare to mock me?" he snarled, gripping her bare shoulders tight enough to leave bruises, but she merely winced a little and stared boldly into his eyes. "I will kill every last one of those fils de pute and bring you their bleeding tongues on a platter," he threatened, sinking his manicured nails into her skin, leaving angry red half-moons in the pale flesh.
Aimee felt a wild joy rise up in her heart. With the revolution begun the fate of her family lay no longer in the hands of this mad-man, but in the hands of the Heavenly Father. She leant in closer to him, eyes bright beneath the bruises. "I'd like to see you try, you bastard."
His face registered shock a half beat before he landed another blow across her face that made her ears ring. "You forget yourself," his hand gripped her windpipe enough to make her eyes widen, "I still have you…and you are coming with me, right now, to Italy, where you shall remain until I grow tired of your pain and send you to meet your lying excuse of a sire. That is all that awaits you; you will never see those boys again, regardless of whether they live or die." He pulled her closer until their noses touched. "Do not forget that you…are…mine for as long as I say."
"Sir?" The voice was that of a nervous footman holding another letter between white-gloved and shaking fingers. "There is a letter here from his Lordship…"
"Shut up!" The Patron flung her back into the chair, the wooden carvings bruising her head. "I don't care what that fat, old pen-pusher wants to know! Go and finish packing my truck! Tell Babet and Gueulemer to make sure the gate stays clear for the carriage. The mademoiselle and I," he punctuated his sentence with a sharp tug on her hair, "shall be only a few minutes."
As he dragged her from the room Aimee felt the familiar sensation of barely controlled terror come alive beneath her skin as she considered what his intentions may be but there, in the back of her mind was one saving grace.
He was afraid. Afraid of the revolution, of whomever he reported to, of her sudden lack of fear…and he knew that she knew.
She felt the reassuring touch of the silver knife hastily tucked up the sleeve of her dress and smiled coldly at her captor's back. Sending his thugs to keep the gate and street clear of baying revolutionaries was a fruitless exercise; the rebellion was already inside of his house, beating in her chest like the wild beating of a drum.
A/N: Hope you enjoyed this rather exciting chapter. What do you think is going to happen? What will become of Enjolras? What is Aimee going to do? Where is Grantaire? How will the revolution progress? And, most importantly, who is going to die…?
Until next time, mes amis, and Vive le Revolution!
Libz xxx