CITY OF LIGHTS
Chapter 16
The fog had lifted; and by the evening, rain began to fall.
Millicent, pleading delicate nerves after the murder of the general, had cancelled all her appointments to make time for a good book and a glass of wine. Resistance work had necessarily come to a standstill; and Remy had not been in the mood for his usually scintillating conversation.
Millicent stared at her book, but she was barely reading a thing.
The truth was, she was concerned about him. The last couple of days, she had sensed him withdrawing, pulling away. She knew when a man was about to turn tail and flee, and it was exactly what she sensed in him now.
She didn't blame him. Things had become far too hot for him here; and while she had no idea what exactly was keeping him tied to MI-6's mission, but there weren't many things she thought could be worth the trouble.
The only thing she could think of was the threatened death of a loved one, but… LeBeau did not strike her as the kind of man who had loved in a very long time, who did not trust it at all. If she was him, she would have jumped on the next ship to New York. Cut her losses, roam free. Not stayed here, chained to a war, a murder investigation… and Carver's mission.
What was the price of that mission? she wondered, not for the first time.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door.
"Yes?" she called out.
The door creaked open quietly, and when Millicent looked up from her book and her wine, she was surprised to see Véronie, standing meekly in the doorway.
"What is it, Véronie?"
"There is… there is someone to see you, Madame."
Millicent set the book down in her lap, confused. It was not Véronie's job to man the front door… nor even the back door.
"Who is it?" she asked.
The maid opened the door a little wider, revealing a very wet and bedraggled Fraulein Darkhölme standing there with a small suitcase, a haunted look in her green eyes.
Millicent set aside her wine and rose to her feet, her eyes flashing.
"Don't be angry at Véronie," Fraulein Darkhölme begged quietly. "I asked her to help me. She was kind enough to do so. It was at my insistence."
Madame Collins stared at the tableau before her, the gears in her mind turning hard. This was not a thing she could have prepared for, nor was it a thing she pleased about. Already too much attention had been drawn her way. Having this woman return would likely draw more it, and not of a good kind.
"Thank you, Véronie," she addressed the maid in as calm a voice as she could. "You may go now. I trust you will be discreet, as always."
The girl inclined her head and left, shutting the doors softly behind her. Millicent felt certain of her trustworthiness… she was not so sure of that of the woman who now stood before her.
"Why are you here?" she asked bluntly.
"I didn't know who else to turn to," came the quiet reply.
"And what has happened, to make you believe you should turn to me?"
"Forgive me, Madame," Fraulein Darkhölme replied, lowering her head slightly, an act of contrition that Millicent wasn't altogether sure she trusted. "The inspector suspects me of the general's murder. I was afraid, and I came here. I am at your mercy."
She was afraid – Millicent was certain of that much. The woman's face was pale, drawn; her hands trembled.
"You coming here will not allay his suspicions," she warned her. "I daresay running away will only confirm them."
Fraulein Darkhölme glanced back up at her, looking stricken.
"I have… not been strictly honourable with the general, Madame. The inspector… he found some things in the apartment… in my room… which implicated me. They made him believe that perhaps I did murder the general after all."
Her voice was soft, firm, yet trembled. An act? She wasn't sure.
"And did you?"
Again, her eyes went wide. She shook her head.
"No."
A simple word, unqualified by anything else. It held the ring of truth. She saw that the woman was cold, wet, exhausted… scared. And something in her relented. She indicated to a nearby chair.
"Sit," she ordered.
Fraulein Darkhölme did so, sinking slowly into the chair. She placed her hands in her lap and clasped and unclasped them agitatedly. Millicent moved over to the side table and poured a glass of brandy.
"Tell me," she said, business-like, "what is it that the inspector found that made him believe you are the killer?"
"Vials of laudanum," Fraulein Darkhölme replied, after a pregnant silence.
Millicent turned to her, eyebrows raised.
"A controlled substance."
"Yes."
"For yourself?"
"No."
"Then for the general?"
"Yes."
Millicent pursed her lips. She walked over to the other woman and handed her the brandy, who took it gratefully. Millicent was rather surprised when she downed the entire thing in one go.
"He took it, for pain," Fraulein Darkhölme explained. "A wound on his leg, from the Great War."
"But you used it for other purposes."
"Yes."
"What purposes?"
There was a flicker of hesitance in her face, but, seeing that Millicent would brook nothing but the truth, she answered quietly:
"I drugged the general. He was a light sleeper. I gave it to him so he would sleep, so I could leave the house."
"Why?"
The woman hung her head. She could not reply. When she took in a breath, it shook.
"I cannot even begin to tell you why, Madame Collins," she replied in a broken tone. "You wouldn't believe me even if explained it all to you. I don't think anyone would."
There were tears in her voice – even if they did not fall, she could hear them. To see such vulnerability in this woman was so unexpected that, despite herself, Millicent was moved to comfort her.
"I think," she said honestly, "that I could believe more than you think I could, my dear."
Fraulein Darkhölme raised her pale, watery-eyed face, searching the older woman's features for some sign that she could trust her, when a soft rap sounded on the door.
It was pre-arranged rap that Millicent knew well. She saw Fraulein Darkhölme stiffen in fear; but she patted her knee reassuringly, said:
"It's all right. It is Monsieur Marceaux. He can be trusted."
The news seemed to unsettle the young woman more, which she had expected, of course.
"Entrez!" she called aloud.
The door opened slightly; and Remy's face appeared in the crack.
"I heard voices," he said. His eyes fell on Millicent's unexpected companion, who was now wiping at her eyes vigorously, and he looked startled.
"All is well," Millicent reassured him. "Come inside. Lock the door."
He did so, now unable to take his eyes off of Fraulein Darkhölme; she, however, refused to look at him.
"The inspector, it seems, is back to believing that Mademoiselle Darkhölme is the general's murderer," Millicent explained gravely. "And my house is now apparently a sanctuary." She turned back to the younger woman. "But I am afraid you are a dangerous woman, Fraulein. For me, to harbour you… if the inspector were to find out, it would look very bad for me and my household."
Fraulein Darkhölme was not a woman to beg – but desperation caused her to now.
"It would only be but a night or two… while I got my affairs in order. As soon as I am ready, I will leave. You'll never see or hear from me again. On my word."
Millicent pretended to think about it.
"I will only consider letting you stay," she said, "on one condition. That you tell me all. No omissions." Again Fraulein Darkhölme looked pale, cornered – but Millicent was in no mood to capitulate. "Fraulein, I don't think you realise the predicament you put me in. If you are to stay in my household, I must know exactly what it is I am getting into, and what I am risking. I will not even consider letting you stay without first knowing what it is I am sheltering you from."
Evidently, the Fraulein had not expected such a hard bargain to be driven by this older woman; and she struggled visibly, and for several seconds, between the need for self-preservation and the need to keep her secrets.
"It's okay, chere," Remy finally spoke up unexpectedly from the door, in English. "You can tell her."
Millicent snapped her attention to him, astonished to hear him speak in his native language; but she was even more surprised when the Fraulein's shoulders slumped, and she said in what was unmistakably a Southern accent: "I can't."
"You can," he insisted.
"No. I can't."
All in one haphazard moment, the truth fell into place; and Millicent leaned back and took in a noisy breath, eyes wide.
"You know one another," she stated in her native tongue.
Neither said a thing. But they didn't need to.
"Who are you working for?" she asked of Fraulein Darkhölme, her tone sharp now. "And what is your real name?"
There was no immediate answer. Fraulein Darkhölme's face closed in on itself, a mask that could no longer be read.
"They call me Rogue," she said, with cool dignity. She glanced at Remy, and Millicent sensed she was talking as much to him as to her when she continued, "I work for… an organisation of people like me. Like Remy."
Millicent cocked her an appraising look.
"You're a mutant."
"Yes, ma'am. Vampiric skin. The slightest touch and I steal your thoughts, your feelings, your mem'ries. Your powers, if you're a mutant. I'm also invulnerable. Nothin' can hurt me, not even bullets."
Another surprise. And Millicent sensed this was only the beginning of them.
"Ah. I see now why the general employed you as his bodyguard." She could've commented on the irony of the general still being murdered despite having an invulnerable bodyguard, but she didn't. "Go on," she said instead.
The woman called Rogue drew in a breath, as if steeling herself for some ordeal.
"My group had heard talk of mutants going missin'," she explained, "from all across Europe. Of course, when the war broke out, we heard of… other things. Persecutions, deaths. We decided we had to act. I volunteered to go undercover in Germany, insert myself into the Party… It wouldn't be too hard, with my powers, t'become someone else, someone who could be trusted."
Millicent nodded. Very clever – a plan that could hardly fail. And yet it had.
"So your mission was to… discover what was happening to mutants within the occupied territories."
"Simply put… yes."
"And you discovered that… what? That they were being used as test subjects for Operation X's secret weapon?"
Rogue was quiet – perhaps a little surprised at Millicent's apparent knowledge. She seemed to wrestle with herself a moment; her eyes moved to Remy for a split second, then back again.
"Madame Collins, since I assume you're with the Resistance, I won't pretend to hide a thing from ya. Mutants are Operation X's secret weapon."
Millicent was stunned at that. Stunned first by the revelation, stunned second by the woman's guess that she was in the Resistance. She guessed she had Remy to thank for that – but that was a something best dealt with later.
"Explain," she said coldly.
Rogue looked down at the empty glass in her hand, her eyes going sad for a moment.
"There're two types of mutant, in the Nazi's eyes," she spoke quietly. "Ubermensch and Untermensch."
"Super-human and sub-human. Yes, I've heard of those terms. All too often. Go on."
"Isn't it obvious?" Rogue continued, looking up from her glass, seeming pained to continue speaking of such things. "Those of us whose mutations are useful are Ubermensch. Those of us whose mutations aren't are Untermensch." She paused, looking aside, shifting uncomfortably. "Sorry. I don't like usin' those words."
Millicent sympathised.
"And the general classed you as Ubermensch," she stated.
Rogue swallowed, nodded.
"The labs in Verrière Forest are where they take mutants to sort them," she explained, moving on from a subject that was obviously painful to her. "Ubermensch go to reeducation camps, or, if already pliable, will be drafted directly into the war effort. Untermensch…"
She trailed off, apparently unable to continue. Her throat constricted.
"There are labour camps," Millicent finished for her quietly. "On the border."
Rogue nodded quickly, her fingers gripping the glass tight.
Millicent stood, retrieved the decanter of brandy. This time she was generous pouring it into the woman's glass. Without pause Rogue drained the entire cup.
"We've both been out there, in the forest," she said in a rush, referring to both herself and Remy. "I'd drug the general during the night and make sure he was asleep so he wouldn't meddle, wouldn't know. I wanted to free the mutants out there. But you," and though she still didn't look at him, Millicent knew she was addressing Remy, "made things difficult. The general realised the operation was compromised. He expedited the sortin' process, moved most of it to another site. My plans were all messed up. Everythin' was. And when I tried to broach some sorta… partnership between us, ya wouldn't even hear me out."
There was recrimination in her voice. She couldn't look at Remy – but Millicent did. He was as silent as he had been for most of the conversation, his expression unreadable.
"And now everythin' has gone to shit," Rogue continued, her voice cracking. "And my mission's failed. And now I have nothin' left but t'try to get outta this hell hole." She lifted her face again, fighting against tears. "Y'try t' finally do somethin' good with your life," she said – and again, Millicent knew she was speaking to Remy, not to her. "To finally make up for all the shit you've done. To protect the people who matter – your people, the people who don't deserve all this sufferin'. And you can't. No matter how hard you try, you can't do it."
Tears came. She wiped at them with the back of a shaking hand, and then they were gone.
Millicent stood. She'd heard enough.
"Suppose I let you stay," she said quietly. "How long before you're gone?"
Some of the visibly tension bled out of Rogue's body.
"A couple of days, I think," she answered quietly. "Enough time to get my affairs in order, get a train outta Paris, book passage back to the States…"
"Very well," Millicent agreed. "You have two nights. Then you must be out of here. To keep you any longer, I hardly need say, puts both myself and my people at very great risk."
Rogue looked up at her. She was too proud and closed off a woman to give effusions of gratitude, but it was there in her eyes.
"I understand. Thank you."
"Don't thank me until you leave this house safely," Millicent said grimly. "I'll have Véronie prepare the guest room for you."
"She'll sleep in my bed," Remy cut in firmly. Millicent glared at him.
"Remy, this is hardly a good idea."
"It's de best idea. You put her in de guest room, de servants will know all about it, tongues will start flappin'. You put her in my room, we keep her locked down. The servants don't need to know a thing. I'll see to her needs."
Millicent raised an eyebrow at him, more aware than ever now of the dangerousness of his entanglement with this Rogue.
"That had better not be a double entendre, my dear Mr. LeBeau."
"It ain't," he answered dispassionately. "I don't plan on sharin' the bed wit' her. B'sides, when the inspector comes – and we all know he will – the secret panel's in my room. We put her in there. No fuss."
Millicent hesitated. There was sense in what he said – putting her in his room was the most expedient, logical solution. She even trusted Remy to treat their guest with respect. But she was also highly conscious of the fact that putting the two of them in one another's direct orbit presented an emotional risk, the fallout of which could be… unpleasant. For both of them, if not for her.
Well… that would have to be their risk. For her, at least, the pros outweighed the cons.
"All right," she decided at last. "She stays in your room. This is, after all, partly your mess, Remy LeBeau. Perhaps you should take a little responsibility for it."
The matter having been settled, Remy half-turned and unlocked the door. He opened it a crack and looked outside. Apparently, the coast was clear. He held the door open.
"C'mon."
Rogue set aside the empty glass, picked up her case and stood. Without a word she followed him out.
-oOo-
They didn't speak.
Not even when he let her into his room, did she even say a word of thanks.
Perhaps it was because she was a woman who was so used to being in control of her own destiny, so used to lying and conniving and scheming her way out of fixes – they weren't so different on that score. But now she was left reeling. Begging for help. He wanted it to feel good, to see her like this, at the mercy of forces outside of her control. But it didn't.
She wasn't fighting it. Wasn't railing against it. She was broken, defeated. He'd seen tears he hadn't seen before. There was nothing to relish in this.
She stood by the bed and placed her case on the mattress. She shrugged off her wet jacket and unpinned her soaked hat. She laid them aside carefully, and then she turned and looked about the room, seeing a half-filled suitcase propped open against a wall. She glanced at him.
"You're leaving," she said simply. He gave a small grimace.
"Obviously not anymore."
Silence fell. Since it seemed like an invitation to speak, he did so.
"You didn't tell her everythin'," he pointed out quietly. "You didn't tell her about Kurt."
She stiffened a little at the name, then dropped her eyes.
"That's my business," she said, a little sullenly.
She wouldn't be drawn into a discussion on it. He sensed that clearly. He decided it was better to change the subject.
"The room's yours," he began, business-like. "I won't cause ya no trouble, 'less you give me any first. Don't unpack any more than you can help." He indicated to the fireplace. "There's a hidin' spot behind those panels by the mantelpiece. The inspector comes, you and all your stuff goes in there. Don't want a single trace of you in dis room when dat time comes."
She nodded, effortlessly understanding. He moved on.
"The bed is yours. I'll sleep over there." He glanced over at the armchair in the corner of the room. "If you're in a tight spot, there's a pistol in the nightstand. Figure you won't need none o'dat though. But I like to keep one, just in case."
She nodded again. And once more, there was silence.
"Been a long day," he began, awkwardly. "You could prob'ly use some sleep. I won't keep ya any longer." He retreated to the door, then added: "Is there anythin' I can get ya, while I'm downstairs?"
She shook her head.
"No. Thank you."
He shrugged, opened the door.
"Remy," she said.
He stopped, half-turned.
"Thanks," she breathed.
He passed her a tight smile and left.
x
He found Millicent in her personal office, going through some documents, the decanter of brandy place prominently on the desk. She barely acknowledged his entrance, simply continuing to read the paper in her hand.
"How long have you known her?" she asked.
Her tone was conversational, but he knew better than to assume that this was the opening to an exchange that was going to be anything but serious. She wouldn't tolerate any further lies or obfuscations from him.
"Our... association… began eight years ago," he replied, choosing his words carefully. "It ended eight years ago. 'Till recently I hadn't a seen a lick of her since, and dat was a very good thing."
She raised her eyes to his, a little surprised. Perhaps it was the length of time he'd known Rogue. Perhaps it was the bitterness in his voice.
"Yet you're still in-love with her," she observed bluntly. "As she is with you."
The openness with which she stated it both disconcerted and riled him.
"Love is a strange word for what's b'tween us, Millicent."
There were barbs in his voice, subtly styled to warn her to back off; yet she merely laughed. He watched as she placed the papers back on the desk and stared him right in the eye.
"You lied to me about her, Remy," she said. "I don't like that."
He was silent, not bothering to protest the truth.
"And you told her things about me that I appreciate even less."
That was not the truth however, and he wasn't afraid to let it be known.
"I told her nothin' about you and the Resistance," he said. "She must've guessed."
"Guessed through pillow talk, I suppose?" Millicent remarked. "You've been careless, Remy. I sensed very early on that you had… feelings for this woman. Foolishly, I allowed you to indulge them, trusting that that good common sense of yours would prevail, as it always has done in the past. If I'd known just how deeply the 'association' between the two of you ran, I would not have encouraged your pursuit of her." She paused, quirked a self-deprecating little smile. "Not that you would've listened to me anyway."
Remy pressed his lips together. It was rare he felt thoroughly chastened, but somehow, Millicent had managed to do it.
"And now we must harbour her here," Millicent continued, irritated. "And when the inspector finds out she's gone, one of the first places he'll come to is here, since he now knows of your relationship with her."
"That's in hand, Millicent," he assured her.
"It isn't, not until he leaves this house without having found her."
"The inspector won't find her."
She looked him over, obviously not knowing whether to trust in his confidence or not. After a second or two, she went to pour herself some brandy. He noticed that this time, she didn't offer him any.
"Can we help her get out of Paris?" he deigned to ask.
Her eyes darted up to his again, obviously piqued as she was at his question.
"You're begging for more favours on her behalf, Remy?"
"Millicent, she came here suspectin' you were in the Resistance, that you might have the resources to get her out of here. S'far as we know, she's a wanted woman right now – how the hell she gonna get tickets to anywhere? The sooner she's outta here, the better it will be for all of us. She came here knowin' you'd be able to help her wit' dat."
This time she really was vexed, and she made no bones about showing it.
"She didn't come here for me, Remy," she snapped. "She came here for you."
It was a truth he hadn't acknowledged until that very moment. He looked aside, his jaw tensing.
"I know," he murmured, at last.
"Then this is your problem to fix," she concluded. She picked up her papers again. As far as she was concerned, the matter was finished.
And there was nothing for it but for him to leave.
-oOo-
He went back up to his room to check on Rogue.
She was already in bed, staring up at the ceiling with a dreamy look on her face.
"Rogue," he spoke.
It was a second, maybe two, before she answered.
"Hmm?"
There was an odd lightness to her voice that alarmed him. He went over to the bed and looked down on her. Her gaze was unfocused, her pupils completely dilated. The alarm in him quickly grew.
"What the hell you taken, Rogue?"
She said nothing, merely fixing him with a serene smile, and he glanced over at the nightstand. There was an empty vial on it, and when he picked it up he saw it was laudanum.
"Why de fuck you takin' dis, chere?" he shot harshly at her.
She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, slowly.
"I ain't slept in three days, Cajun. Leave me alone."
He swore under his breath. The less evidence she left of her presence the better – and here she was, leaving damn laudanum in his room. Yet more evidence to dispose of. He heaved out an exasperated sigh and moved aside, preferring to set up his station on the armchair than confront her on this. Better to let her sleep. Better to have her quiet and not causing any more trouble.
He began to undress, kicking off his shoes by the door, locking it while he was there. He didn't take off his vest and trousers – it didn't seem right, and he picked up a blanket and headed to the armchair, turning out the lamplight as he went.
"Sleep here," he heard her suddenly say.
He glanced over at her with surprise – he'd assumed she had already fallen asleep. Her eyes were still closed, but she was definitely awake.
"Rogue," he said. "You ain't in your right mind right now. Dis ain't what you want."
"It is," she murmured. "Lie down beside me. I won't feel safe 'till y'do."
Another game, he wondered? Perhaps. It was all he ever got from her. Nevertheless he set aside the blanket and went over to the bed. He didn't get in under the covers. It was too much to risk her poisonous skin, and he wasn't about to abuse her trust either. Sex was the furthest thing from his mind. He lay on his back and waited for her to sleep, so he could too.
"Promise you'll stay 'till mornin'," she half-whispered.
He looked at her. Eyes still closed, her expression peaceful.
She came here for you, Millicent had said; and he realised the truth of it now. If they'd put her anywhere else in the house, she would've come here. She would've come to his bed, to be safe.
"I promise," he murmured.
The shadow of a smile touched her lips, then was gone. He turned his gaze back up to the ceiling, feeling everything, naming none of it.
And just when he thought she'd fallen asleep, she spoke again.
"I'm sorry, ya know," she mumbled somnolently. "I'll never stop bein' sorry. I never wanted to hurt ya… I never wanted to hurt Belladonna neither… But I can't say sorry t'her… I'll never be able ta… And I can't beg for her forgiveness… So I'll beg for yours, even if ya won't ever give it t'me. I'll beg until the day I die."
Her voice grew fainter and fainter, further and further away, dragged under by sleep. He lay in the darkness, listened, eyes still cast upward.
"You were loved, darlin'," she whispered to him. "So loved. Always were. Always will be."
Sleep finally took her on the tail-end of those words. The gentle rhythm of her breathing was all that remained. Would she remember these words when she woke up? Was it her or Belladonna who had spoken?
He'd never know.
Lying beside her in the lengthening darkness, Remy silently wept.
-oOo-