Vive la Révolution

4

"I am not convinced that leaving Matilda with your daughter is a good idea," said Clara as the Doctor dragged her by the hand down a narrow street leading north from the Louvre, straight towards the grandiose Palais-Royal. Clara, who wasn't particularly versed in architecture, was unable to tell the nuances of the Palais-Royal apart from those of the Tuileries, the Louvre, or any other ridiculous renaissance building they found themselves in awe of. It had the typical grand façades and was lined by covered arcades and neoclassical columns.

"Jenny's watched Mattie her whole life, they'll be okay," the Doctor assured her, "She's good at looking after other people, just not herself. And how much trouble can they get into just watching an execution?"

"Is that a serious question? Jenny could be in a coma and still manage to get into trouble."

"I'm gonna ignore that and again express that I have faith in her abilities to keep an eye on a teenager. Word of advice, it's called the Palais de l'Égalité at the moment. Because, y'know, the Duke of Orléans doesn't want to get the chop. Changed his own name to Philippe Égalité."

"Did that work?" asked Clara.

"No, they're gonna kill him in two weeks. But keep that schtum. Not that he's here, he got arrested in April. Still, any mention of 'liberty' will help keep the people here on our side," she said, "It's certainly a favourite haunt of a lot of lower-class people. And plenty of upper-class people, too. Home to Paris's first fancy restaurant, Le Grand Véfour. And you can still go there in our time period."

"Wait, I'm confused, what actually is the Palais-Royal?"

"A palace," she said.

"With a restaurant?"

"Well, no, they've been building attractions here for years. It has shops, restaurants, arcades, theatres, bordellos, casinos; all that good stuff. Like a… mall. Sort of. A mall full of prostitutes and drunkards. For all his flaws, it was the current Duke of Orléans who opened it to the public. His execution was more to do with his son knowing someone undesirable. C'mon, I'll show you something good." She took Clara's hand and led her through the porticos, the palace gardens stretching out in the open air next to them. It wasn't very busy at all, presumably because everybody was in attendance at the nearby execution. "Voila!" The Doctor presented her with a small café nestled cosily in a corner with seating spilling out into the walkway.

"You're gonna have to explain what I'm looking at," said Clara.

"This is the Café de Foy! All kinds of undesirables hang out here, including one Camille Desmoulins, currently under threat of being ousted from the National Convention. He stood on this very table," the Doctor indicated a random table nearby, "And he waved a sword around and called the people to arms, and do you know what happened two days later?" Clara shrugged. "They stormed the Bastille! I remember it like it was yesterday."

"What? You stormed the Bastille?"

"No, too much violence. But I was here for Desmoulins' speech. And I've heard around that more than a few aristocrats come to the Café de Foy to hide now, including the Ordre Royal et Militaire de Saint-Louis. If we're searching for rumours of a Royalist plot to rescue the Queen, it's those boys we need to be looking for," she said.

"Mm, I thought we're meant to be looking for the soldier who has the Glove?"

"We'll go ask around with some ladies of the night once it gets dark and things start picking up in the upstairs rooms," she explained, going towards the door of the Café de Foy with Clara close behind her, "In the meantime, we can get something to eat and do a little eavesdropping. Unless you want to split up? One of us looks for the Glove, one of us listens for rumours?"

"No, no. It's fine, I suppose. But how are you planning on getting us something to eat when you don't have any mon-"

"Henri!" the Doctor called loudly to a waiter who was on his way back into the kitchen, having just served a bottle of wine to a pair of men seated by the window. The waiter was surprised and squinted at her for a second as she beamed, and then recognised her with a start.

"Doctor! It's been a long time since you showed your face around here," he joked, coming to greet her.

"Hasn't it just?" she smiled. Clara cleared her throat.

"Sorry – have you been here since you… you know?" she meant 'regenerated.' She had not been to revolutionary Paris with her wife before and was very suspicious of this man recognising her. The Doctor grew very uncomfortable and began to stammer.

"I, uh, well, you see-"

"I hadn't seen you since Monsieur Desmoulins handed out those cockades," said Henri. Clara crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows at the Doctor.

"Um… can we talk about this in a minute, Coo?" she asked quietly. Clara remained sceptical but didn't want to embarrass the Doctor when this was all clearly a ploy to get them a free meal.

"Jousserand won't be happy to see you here," Henri warned.

"We won't stick around, just a quick catch up."

"Not interested in seeing the execution?"

"When you've seen one you've seen them all," she said indifferently, "This is Clara, by the way."

"This is the girl you were-?"

"I was just wondering-" the Doctor cut straight across him, but Clara was alarmed.

"Have you been talking about me to a bunch of random French people?" she asked. The Doctor gave her a look before turning back to the waiter.

"I'm so sorry about her, Henri – the thing is, she's English."

"Oh. That explains it," he nodded.

"D'you think you might be able to slip us something to eat, maybe?" she asked, "I wouldn't ask, but I've fallen on hard times and don't have any money at all. Even this dress is borrowed from somebody. Promise we won't have any of your wine."

"…I'll see what Gérard says."

"Gérard can't say no to me," the Doctor smiled, "Honestly, leftovers would be great. Whatever he can throw together." Henri thought about this and eventually nodded, indicating for them to take a seat before finally vanishing into the kitchen at the back of the café again. Trying to make up for her mistakes, the Doctor pulled out Clara's chair for her, but it didn't do an awful lot to get her to drop the subject of the Doctor's secret visits to the 1700s.

"Well, then?" Clara prompted, leaning forward on the table towards her.

"What?"

"Don't 'what' me. When, exactly, were you here last?"

"In 1789." Clara glared at her to get her to spill the beans. "Alright. Fine. It was four years ago."

"Four years ago in-"

"I don't mean four years ago in 1789, that's a coincidence. I mean four actual years ago, to us."

"…Oh." Things had been very bad between them four years ago. Before the Dimension Crash had stolen this Doctor and sent her forty-nine years into the past, Clara had been agonising with her desire to leave the TARDIS and felt incapable of discussing it with her other half.

"I just… I wanted to go somewhere, and I knew you wouldn't come with me, and I did ask you that morning if you wanted to go out. You shrugged me off and went back to bed, so I came on my own. Maybe I vented a little to some of the clientele and Henri back there before getting caught up in what Desmoulins was shouting about. And that was two years before they repealed the sodomy laws, so there's me whining about a woman not loving me anymore-"

"I never stopped loving you," Clara interrupted softly, "Not even for a second."

"I know that now. I had no idea what was going on with you, with us, at the time. I thought you wanted to dump me and were too scared to say it. So, yes, I came here recently, and I didn't bring you or tell you about it. But you understand why, don't you? And I brought you now; I love having you here now."

"But what would you have done if you did get arrested for sodomy?"

"Well, if I got arrested I would've been sent to the Bastille and then broken out two days later by the revolution," she shrugged, "I would've improvised something. Waited around until the Thermidorian Reaction and borrowed my own TARDIS for a few minutes to use the phone."

"…Do you sneak off at night now?" Clara asked carefully.

"Not on the TARDIS. I go for walks sometimes if it's a nice night," she admitted. "But it's not to do with you. We're good." She paused. "Or are we not good? Are you saying we're not-"

"No, no-"

"No we're not good?"

"We're very good, alright? Very, really good. I was just wondering. Because I worry about you getting into a scrape."

"You think I need you there to rescue me? Protect me?"

"Historically, you do, because you're an idiot."

"Gee, thanks. I'll remember that the next time you ask me about French history." Clara rolled her eyes.

Henri chose this moment to return from the kitchen, coming straight for their table.

"Gérard is making you each a croque-monsieur," he said, "No wine."

"Just what the doctor ordered!" the Doctor grinned, "D'you get it? Because I'm the Doctor."

"Not sure who needed that explaining, but I suppose if you're happy," Clara commented.

"Tell Gérard I'm sure it'll be a masterpiece, and we're very grateful, especially my lady friend. She loves a croque-monsieur."

"Do I?" Clara asked as Henri left.

"Yes, I've made them for you before." Clara frowned, thinking. "It's like a ham and cheese toastie, but fancier and with Dijon mustard. You'll see, don't worry. I usually make you it with an egg on top, but I don't think Gérard will be too happy if I go demanding an egg. There's a food shortage at the moment, after all."

"I do have another history question," Clara said after she gave up trying to remember the last time she'd had a croque-monsieur made for her, "Unless you're still too upset with me to field it."

"No, go ahead."

"It's about Victor Hugo."

"Hasn't been born yet, but sure. I'll see what I can do."

"I heard a story about all the brothels in Paris closing on the day of his funeral because all the prostitutes were in mourning," Clara explained, barely able to remember where she'd heard that (but she had.) "Is it true?"

The Doctor laughed, "It's half true. They probably just took their business outside. Two million people attended his state funeral, that's a lot of potential clients for a budding, young prostitute. I don't doubt that he slept with every prostitute in Paris, though; he's a nightmare to hang around with. Always looking for a new woman."

"What? You know him?"

"Yeah, we're good buddies, Vic and I."

"But – you've never taken me to meet him!" Clara protested.

"Take you to meet a guy who slept with two-hundred women in two years? Besides, I really don't want to be around him now I've regenerated. It was one thing hanging out when we were both boys, and this was a few hundred years ago, but me now?"

"Are you worried he'll seduce you?"

"He'd try, and I don't want to subject myself to that. So we're not going to meet him. If you want to be close to the guy, just read Les Mis in the original French, like Sarah," she joked.

"I don't believe her for a second. I'm not even convinced she can speak French."

"I thought you don't like speaking ill of our colleagues?" she jibed.

"Not when they're in the same room I don't. But she can't exactly overhear us now, can she?" Clara challenged.

"Hugo had a lot of mistresses, you know. He cheated on his mistresses with other mistresses."

"Wow. I suppose we do have a lot in common."

"Excuse me!?"

"I'm kidding," Clara laughed, "I would never cheat on my mistress. My wife, on the hand – she's fair game. Nothing's gonna stand between me and a gang of Parisian prostitutes."

"Except for how you don't have any money."

"I suppose that's my tragedy. Destined to be an impoverished poet for the rest of my days."

"Riddled with venereal diseases."

"What could be more French?"

The Doctor was amused, "I suppose that's a fair point."

"Is that what he died of, then? An STI?"

"Nope, it was pneumonia that got him, at the ripe old age of eighty-three. Older than you, Coo. And he kept womanising for pretty much all of that time."

"Sounds more like you than me, sweetheart."

"How dare you."

"Why was it you got locked in the Tower of London, again?"

"I've been locked in the Tower of London at least two-dozen times, you'll have to be a lot more specific."

"When Charles II got you. I think I heard about this from Amy a very long time ago."

"What? Ugh," she was disgruntled, "Amy wasn't even there… and it was a misunderstanding. So what if I was hauled out of a mansion, naked, after being caught hiding under a woman's dress? That doesn't mean I was up to no good."

"You're absolutely unbelievable."

"That's not even the worst part; you wanna know what her name was?"

"What? Wasn't 'Clara', was it?"

"God, I wish – she was called Matilda, and I'm not happy about being reminded of the whole affair."

"So it was an affair?" Clara challenged, "Yet again you're out there dabbling with the rich elites. This is exactly what I was talking about earlier – you and the king's mistress."

"It is not my fault that women, and sometimes men, just fall in love with me all the time. I've never asked for this."

"I think you're the most degenerate of us all. Perhaps more so than even Victor Hugo. Or me. But I haven't slept with two-hundred women, sadly. Then again, maybe we'll break up and I can go back to my old ways." Henri came out of the kitchen balancing two plates in one hand with a jug of water in the other. He presented them with what looked, to Clara, like a pair of toasties, which she couldn't complain about. The water, on the other hand, didn't look clean at all.

"Merci, Henri," said the Doctor.

"Gérard wants to know if you have any advice for him."

She lowered her voice and Henri leant closer, "Stay safe on July 27th."

"I'll let him know." Henri left them again.

"Did you just pay for our lunch with a tip about the future?" Clara whispered.

"In exchange for the best sandwich in Paris? Absolutely. Gérard's a wizard. See, the thing is, he thinks I'm my own daughter."

"He… sorry?"

"He taught me how to cook, about thirty years ago. It was right after the Time War, actually, and… well, I've always loved Paris. Always thought I might live here one day. Not that I dislike Brighton, but y'know, living in one of those apartments in the Marais and buying fresh bread every day… I forget how much I love it until I come back. Favourite place on my favourite planet. Second favourite place, actually."

"What's your favourite place?" Clara asked, biting into her sandwich, then she nearly dropped it on the plate. "Oh my god."

"What? Are you okay?"

"That's like, the best thing I've ever tasted."

"Dammit, Gérard… he's always been a better cook than me…" she complained, "I don't know how he does it. And my favourite place is wherever you are because I'm romantic like that. Or maybe… that big junkyard full of decommissioned phone boxes."

"What if I was in the junkyard of decommissioned phone boxes?" Clara challenged.

"Frankly, that would be too much to handle. I'd need to take a cold shower."

"Gross."

The conversation ground to a halt as they both became absorbed in the sandwiches, Clara stunned by tasting the food of the person who'd taught her wife how to cook so well. She was eternally grateful for the Doctor's love of cooking because without it she probably would have starved to death a very long time ago eating only cereal and biscuits. And it really was a very good toastie, even if the French would insist on calling it something weird and fancy. But she still didn't think much of her chances with the water.

"Where's the water from?" she asked, not sure she wanted to know the answer.

"Fished out of the Seine fresh this morning," said the Doctor, "Water treatment is basically non-existent at the moment. There are sewers, but the waste just goes back into the river." Clara was very glad she hadn't drunk it. "Do you want me to try and get you something mildly alcoholic that'll be a little cleaner?"

"No, I'll just jump in the Seine if I get too thirsty."

She smiled, "Okay, well, just let me know. I'm sure they have some beer they won't mind parting with, but you won't get so far with the wine."

"What's the rest of this story with Gérard, then?"

"Oh, right. I just came to Paris after the Time War to… I don't know, get away from everything? It was a hard time… I got thrown out of a hotel for not having any money or paying the bills and ran into this guy when he was a lot younger, and he berated me for not having a job or knowing a trade. So I said, 'why don't you teach me a trade then?' and he taught me how to make an omelette. And second was the croque-monsieur, though I can't help but think I've been misremembering the recipe… I'll have to check with him. Anyway, par for the course, I had to ditch, came back four years ago because… y'know. Said I was my daughter and 'the Doctor' is a weird, family nickname. I think he knows I'm the same person, though, even if he can't explain it."

"This was all a lie wasn't it?"

"I don't know what you mean," she said unconvincingly.

"We're not here to eavesdrop, are we? We're here so you can get a free sandwich from an old friend of yours."

"I think we've bided enough time for the execution to be done with," she said, which was basically an admission of guilt. Clara couldn't say she minded too much, not when she also got such a good sandwich (even if she didn't have a drink to go with it.) "I also wanted to go on a date with you."

"I'm flattered. So, you do have a plan of where we're going after this?"

"Talk to an old friend of mine. Different old friend to Gérard. Well, acquaintance… hurry up with your food." Typically, the Doctor had already finished eating because her manners had never developed beyond talking while chewing and trying to consume food as quickly as physically possible.

"You have what's left, I already had all that yoghurt earlier." She was more than happy to finish Clara's sandwich for her, wolfing it down in a matter of seconds.

"Maybe I should get something to go? Give it to Jenny?"

"Because that's just what Jenny wants, a cold lump of ham and cheese you've been carrying around for however long it takes us to get what we need," Clara said sarcastically, "Bring her another day. Borrow her ship so it'll actually go to the right time and place."

"The TARDIS brought us here for a reason," she reiterated, "She always takes me where I need to go. And right now, I need to go find a way into the apartments above the porticos so we can sneak into this party."

Sneaking into the upper rooms of the Palais-Royal, or Palais de l'Égalité as the patrons called it, wasn't very hard at all. There wasn't any security – though most of the men they passed were carrying swords – and there certainly wasn't a guest list. It may be a palace, but opening it to the public had certainly let the degenerates in, and they existed in the stifling upper floors in droves. All they had to do was find an open door and walk right in, everybody was too drunk to realise they were strangers. It was a 'more the merrier' situation, and Clara realised that Madame Tussaud had been right: the parties never stopped at the Palais-Royal. It was also dirtier in there than she'd imagined. Probably because it was open to so many vagabonds from the streets as well as frightened aristocrats, but there were many stains on the deep, red carpets and cream-coloured walls that she didn't think she wanted to know the origins of. They mostly looked like vomit.

"Does nobody clean in here?" Clara asked.

"With the Duke of Orléans imprisoned in Marseilles at the moment? I doubt it." Out of nowhere, a splurge of vomit fell from above, the Doctor pulling Clara out of the way as it splashed onto the rug at their feet.

"Pardon, Mademoiselles!" an upper-class man called from the balcony above them. He'd just leant over it and puked onto the ground floor. A woman next to him tittered and took him by the arm, leading him away.

"Well, then," said the Doctor, "You wanted Parisian debauchery, so here you go."

"Reminds me of my student days. Someone once pissed in the hallway outside of our flat."

"Then I'm sure you'll fit right in here. Come on, at least if we're upstairs we avoid the risk of another 'gardez l'eau'… watch out for any signs of animals."

"Animals?"

"If there are animals here we're leaving."

"…Okay," Clara stopped in the hallway, trying to ignore an elderly aristocrat trying a proposition a young man for sex near the window, "Who are we going to see in here?"

"…First of all, I'm not friends with him, alright? I know him because I came here with River before and she ditched me when he invited her to his room-"

"Who?"

"Um…" she paused for a while, "The Marquis de Sade."

"Sorry? The Marquis de Sade from 'sadism'?"

"Yeah, that's the guy."

"The rapist paedophile?"

"Uh-huh." Clara stared at her. "Look, I don't like it any more than you do, but he'll have the information we're looking for. Besides, if the crime is what's bothering you, they're going to arrest him again in another two months."

"It's just that I try not to hang out with rapists and pedos. You know, as a rule."

"Coo, that Glove is very dangerous, and I have a bad feeling about all of this. If talking to Sade helps us out, then I'm going to talk to Sade. You can always go back to the Café de Foy and I'll talk to him on my own?"

"God, no," Clara shook her head, "I'm staying with you if you're going to find this nutter…"

"So long as you don't run off with him like Song did… not that she stuck around, I heard later that she escaped from his bedroom through a window; who knows what he was getting up to that made her want to leave. She's not exactly vanilla. Not like you."

"Thanks," Clara mumbled, unsure whether to take this as a compliment.

"Then again, I think if the people here found out your internet search history, you'd probably be locked up in the same places as the Marquis."

"Well, luckily the people here don't know what the internet is, so I think I'm safe."

"Imagine if they knew about your Playboys."

"Yeah, okay… watching porn isn't the same thing as being in a room full of people fucking, by the way," she said, because that was exactly the type of room they found themselves in as they explored the upper floor, and she tried to avert her gaze. It wasn't very hard because she wasn't particularly interested in what the people were up to, but she still felt like a wallflower.

"Well, I mean…" the Doctor glanced around at bodies stretched across divans, chairs, and a billiard table nobody was using for billiards, "I don't think they mind." None of them were paying any attention to anything except their conquests.

"I see why you didn't want to come here with your daughter now."

"Eurgh, could you imagine? I don't really want to be here at all. But don't let people know you're not digging the vibe, if there's one thing you don't wanna do, it's spoil the mood at an orgy. They are not happy when you do that, trust me."

"How many orgies have you gate-crashed, exactly?"

"You may or may not be surprised at how many lost aliens find themselves in places like this. Plus, I've known Captain Jack for a long time. Hold on." She paused in the room and Clara got kicked by a stray foot and shifted away from a couple. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what? Grunting and moaning?" That was all she could hear.

"I can hear a violin…" she continued to walk and Clara hastened to follow because she felt someone trying to grab her and didn't want to look to see who it was. Again, she thought, it reminded her a lot of student halls.

"Can't believe you're not more perturbed by this."

"It's nothing I haven't seen before. Usually when I open the browser on your phone-"

"Alright, shut up now. You and I both know that you are filth, so you can stop having a go at me," she complained. A woman leaning upright against a wall with someone's head between her legs cursed at Clara and told her to be quiet. So much for not spoiling the mood of the orgy. The Doctor took her hand and led her out of that room, the woman being pleasured glaring at her as she left, but the next one wasn't a whole lot better. "Think I'm too old for this now. Maybe when I was twenty I would've cared a bit more."

"You're telling me. Y'know, one of the charges levied against Queenie out there was allegedly arranging orgies in Versailles."

"What? This is against the law?"

"It's actually a funny story; because this building belongs to the Duke of Orléans, the police aren't allowed in to arrest anybody. So it becomes a hotbed of all sorts of illicit activity, hence all the drunkards, the gambling, the prostitution, and this up here," she explained, "The cops have absolutely no authority to act. I think the violin is coming from this room."

"It smells like shit," said Clara, "Literally."

"I'd try not to think too hard about that."

"This is worse than when we met James Joyce."

"Don't remind me…"

"Also in Paris."

The Doctor disengaged from this conversation, not wanting to be reminded of some of the details that had been unceremoniously shared with them by Nora Barnacle. But the room they entered wasn't much of an escape from that memory. Clara recognised the Marquis de Sade from pictures, paintings and portrayals of him, and there he was in all his glory, dressed in fineries that had seen better days and were sullied and torn. He was whipping a man lying on a bed, bound and gagged. The source of the smell was a bucket sitting next to an overflowing chamber pot. There was also a goat standing near the window, and next to the goat a girl playing a melancholy tune on the violin, seemingly indifferent to the other happenings in the room.

"Well, well, well," Sade looked up from what he was doing, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You owe me a favour," said the Doctor.

"Do I now?" he glanced between her and Clara. The girl continued playing the violin uninterrupted. "I never forget a face. But I don't recall yours."

"Maybe it's changed."

Sade laughed, "Then tell me, for what am I indebted?"

"It's not really a debt, it's more, you tried to sleep with my wife about thirty years ago and I wasn't too happy about it at the time. She jumped through your window to get away. I was taller, and… male." He stared at her. "I'm the Doctor."

"Oh, yes. With the chin."

"That's the one… was she alright? It was a long drop."

"She was fine."

"Didn't bring her this time?"

"We broke up."

"And you have a new girl?" he eyed Clara, "A new girl for a new body. How do you do that? What's the trick?"

"Nothing I can disclose, sorry."

"Your arrogance precedes you, Doctor. I can tell who you are from that alone. I think I found the old face more exciting." He dropped his whip on the bed and stepped down to approach them, smirking. "Who might this beauty be, though?"

"This is Clara," the Doctor introduced her, "And she's not a fan of you, so don't try your luck."

"People always say they dislike me, but I think they're frightened of me. They're frightened of desire, of pleasure," he said, approaching her.

"Yeah, well, you can keep your desire and pleasure well away from me, thank you very much," Clara said, taking a step back towards the door. She couldn't stop thinking about what the goat was doing there, even though she desperately did not want to know what the goat was doing there. He kept looking at her for a long time, practically leering, until turning his attention back on the Doctor.

"Perhaps I can help you. In return for letting me borrow your wife for a few hours, all those years ago, Madame." Sade had an unpleasant aroma floating about his person. "How can I be of assistance?"

"I need to get to the bottom of some rumours."

"This new accent is delicious. Which rumours? Many whispers pass across these lips."

"I heard there was a plot to try and break out Marie Antoinette from the Conciergerie."

"Ah, la Conciergerie, I know it well, mes amies. A man was executed just this afternoon for having a hand in the plot, was he not? And I saw the Queen's head fall myself." Sade paced up and down slowly in front of them. The man on the bed didn't make a sound or move an inch, the violin kept playing, and the goat began to chew on the curtains.

"But do you know any details?"

"The Queen is dead."

"I don't care about that, I care about who was plotting."

"Do you work for Robespierre now?" he half-joked.

"No, but I'm concerned that it might be a bigger scheme than it looks. If you can tell me who was involved-"

"I don't know any names, only stories of certain disgraced noblemen attempting to install the young Louis-Charles to rule France. An organisation. A secret society, perhaps, of trusted confidants of Louis Capet. I would not be privy to such talk, working for the Convention nationale."

"Wait, you're on the National Convention?" Clara asked.

"Indeed, I am."

"Don't you have to be elected to that?"

"And I was."

She turned to look at her wife, "He was elected democratically to government?"

"That's politics for you," the Doctor shrugged.

"I am a man of the people, mademoiselle," Sade smiled at her, a sinister expression behind his eyes.

"Do you know anything else about this secret society?"

"The dregs of the aristocracy, clinging to the Ancien Régime with a death grip. But I have heard that they were in contact with the Queen and that the young man who died today had nothing to do with the Hapsburgs."

"What about where they meet? They must meet somewhere."

"Behind closed doors, I imagine. Doors even I have been unable to penetrate. Perhaps you will have better luck? You do love to play both sides, monsieur." He was so slimy Clara could hardly stand to be in the room with him, and that was saying something.

"Okay, well, I think we'll be leaving now."

"Are you sure? You're more than welcome to stay if you take off these rags," he said.

"No, thanks," said the Doctor.

"I actually have a question, come to think of it," Clara was suddenly reminded of something she'd been talking about earlier that afternoon, with Sarah. A rumour that would most certainly have graced the ears of the Marquis de Sade, and which he might know the truth about. "Do you know if the dead Queen ever dabbled with women?"

"Oh, for-" the Doctor was annoyed, "Really?"

"I just want to know what's true. I can't ask her, can I?" Clara said. Well, not unless they found that Glove she couldn't. The Doctor shook her head.

"I couldn't possibly say for sure," said Sade, "But I have heard more than a few murmurings about the Princesse de Lamballe. And many more stories about the fate of her head and body." Clara regretted bringing this up. It seemed Sade didn't know anything concrete about the matter.

A woman's piercing scream interrupted the encounter, coming from somewhere outside the bedroom Sade and his 'friends' were occupying.

"It sounds as though someone's having a good time, even if you two aren't," he jibed. Clara didn't think it sounded like a scream of pleasure at all, though, nor did the Doctor, and they pushed their way out of the room as quickly as possible to investigate. The woman's screams were joined by a cluster of male shouts, all coming from another bedroom, the door of which was ajar. The Marquis de Sade followed them as well, and they were right – it was not the scream of someone having fun.

In the room a woman, clearly a prostitute, was shrieking as a young man half-dressed in a soldier's garb was threatened by two men wearing all-black brandishing swords at him. A third sword lay on the floor nearby, along with a pair of boots, a hat, and a chest the Doctor recognised as none other than the chest containing the Right Glove they were searching for. And the soldier being threatened was Jacques, who'd been in the middle of getting up to no good with his hired hand, charged with making sure the Glove made it back to Robespierre in one piece. Clara and the Doctor (and the Marquis de Sade, whose smell followed him through the palace) watched in horror.

"You can't take that, it belongs to the Committee of Public Safety," Jacques argued. He tried to get to his sword but one of the men slashed at him with theirs and cut a deep gash in his upper arm. He winced and grabbed the wound to put pressure on it. "Monseigneur Robespierre will have your heads for this! You'll be at the guillotine within a week!" One of them put his sword back in his sheath to pick up the chest underneath the window, opening it carefully to check it contained what they were looking for.

"The Gant droit is here," he announced.

The first of the men, who were dressed so that their identities were disguised completely, laughed coldly and told Jacques, "Longue vie à la Reine, sieur."

"La Reine est morte," Jacques spat at them.

"Treason!"

"It seems you've discovered the remnants of the Ancien Régime on your own," Sade said quietly behind them, then he laughed a little, "I'm glad to be of service. Bon chance, Doctor. Clara. Come and see me whenever you like." He slinked away, back to his room to carry on committing sex offences. Clara was glad to be rid of him.

"Robespierre's toy belongs to us now," the Royalist continued.

"He'll kill me if I lose that thing, you can't take it, please," Jacques began to beg.

"I'll save him the trouble." Without hesitation, the Royalist leader ran his sword through Jacques and the wailing woman in the corner of the room fainted at the sight. Jacques was stabbed straight through the heart, succumbing to the injury rapidly as the sword – now coated in gruesome viscera – was withdrawn. He coughed up some blood and keeled over onto the floor; no medicine available in the 18th century would save him from that wound. "Dépêchez-vous, allons-y."

The Doctor grabbed Clara's arm and made to drag her away as they turned to leave but was a few seconds too late. The two Royalists, now in possession of the Right Glove, had seen them.

"Stop there! Or you'll meet the same end as him!" Clara knew that she would survive being stabbed, and her wife likely would too even if she had to regenerate, but she would rather avoid both of those outcomes if possible. "Who are you? What have you seen?" The duo barged out of the bedroom to brandish their freshly-bloodied swords at Clara and the Doctor.

"I know about the Glove," the Doctor blurted out, both of them holding up their hands in surrender, "I know what it does."

"Why? Do you work for Robespierre as well?"

"N-no, I'm a traveller, I'm from the newly-founded United States," she said, "I'm not French at all. I have no loyalty to Robespierre or the revolution. And in fact, I left the States, because I… disagree with them. See, I love monarchies. Can't get enough of them. That's why I came to France, to see if… I could stop the same thing happening twice. Longue vie à la Reine!" Clara desperately hoped she knew what she was doing, but she'd been with the Doctor for long enough to know that that probably was not the case.

"They know too much, Dubois," the man carrying the chest containing the Glove said.

"What does it do?" the leader, Dubois, challenged, "Le Gant droit?"

"Brings people back from the dead," she said seriously, "For a short amount of time."

"Perhaps you know something," he laughed, "It does much more than that, mademoiselle."

"How do you know that?" asked the man with the box.

"Silence, Leclerc. If they want to help the Queen…"

"We do," said the Doctor quickly, "Want to help her, I mean."

"Who am I to begrudge a lost American the opportunity?" Dubois drawled. Leclerc didn't appear too happy about this, shifting uncomfortably. "Give the American the box. We will both draw our swords, just in case. If nothing else, Beaulieu can entertain himself with them."

"Great…" Clara muttered. And here she thought the Marquis de Sade was bad. Leclerc begrudgingly pushed the chest into the Doctor's hand and then drew his sword as well.

"Sounds good," said the Doctor, "We'll go with you." Clara wasn't sure that getting themselves kidnapped by the Royalists wasn't the best way to uncover their plot, but, well… it was a way, she supposed. And as long as she kept her wits about her, telekinesis and intangibility were more than a match for a few swords.

So it was as prisoners of a pair of Royalist conspirators, Dubois and Leclerc, that they were forced out of the Palais-Royal and hopefully towards the truth.