“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Without waiting for an answer, Jérémie launched into a tale. “I know you, abbé, intimately. And I’m afraid that you know me too well. I sin constantly, against God, the church, and man. But I need help and had nowhere else to turn. My confession, my secret longing that offends God, is for your sister. I love her. I wanted to marry her but that’s impossible. Yet I live with her now, pretending to be her husband. It’s torture to keep all of this locked away in my mind and hide. Forgive me, Father, on behalf of your entire family, Catherine, Michel, and perhaps God, forgive me and help me.”
“I see no sin in your love,” Xavier said quietly, sympathizing with Jérémie’s pain.
“But it’s wrong. It’s all I think about.”
“We can’t always control our minds. Maybe you need forgiveness from yourself, not God.”
“Thank you, Father.” Jérémie practically bolted out of the confessional.
Xavier hurried from his, too, wanting to embrace Jérémie, but by the time he did so, it was too late. Jérémie was gone.
Xavier returned to his duties around the church, absorbed in work to forget about Michel and Jérémie and Thomas and all the misery these times had wrought. Thank God for his work because it gave him an escape, something tangible and good. As the world swirled into activity around him, within his family, his personal life, and the political future of France, Xavier hid in the reality of helping one person at a time as the church called him to do.
9 July 1789 Early evening
CATHERINE WAS WORKING in her study when the butler announced that Xavier and Jérémie waited in the parlor for her. She hurried to greet them and after the usual pleasantries, Xavier and Catherine stared at Jérémie, who fidgeted with a coat button and glanced about as if looking for something he had lost.
“The Third Estate is acting,” he announced. “This isn’t another warning or attempt to get the king to acknowledge them, this is open revolt. The Third Estate declared itself a National Assembly today. The bourgeoisie is in complete control.”
“Did the king move against them?” Catherine asked.
“Not yet.”
“Was there violence?” Xavier asked.
“The peasants are rioting throughout France. They’re starving, after all.”
“Jérémie, what on earth is that scarf you’re wearing?” It suddenly struck Catherine that, in addition to his usual suit and stoic clothing, he wore a tricoloured scarf of blue, white, and red.
“The symbol of freedom,” he said. “Parisians all over have adopted these colors in support of the National Assembly. They call themselves patriots and wear the blue, white, and red to be as free as the Americans are.”
“Where can I get one?” Catherine tugged idly on the ends of Jérémie’s, suddenly wanting to feel part of this movement.
“I brought you one.” He pulled out another tricoloured scarf from his pocket and waved it in front of Catherine, who squealed with delight. She tied it around her neck and marveled at the fact that colors, nothing more, could inspire the passions of hundreds of Frenchmen.
All three admired her new accessory when Michel interrupted their jovial mood.
“What on earth are you doing? Have you completely lost your minds?”
“It’s nice to see you, too, Michel.” Catherine turned to address him, steeled for his tirade.
“My house is full of traitors!”
“Everyone is wearing these colors in Paris,” Jérémie said. “Actually, and I know you warned us against treason, but if we walk around Paris we’re safer from the people if we wear these scarves.”
“See, Michel, you’re not always right, so leave us alone,” Catherine said petulantly. “I might as well tell you now. The Saint-Laurent household must transform itself into a safe center for discussing ideas and change. We must open our doors to everyone with the only rule being respect for all people. This family has guided France through a multitude of transformations and it must once again be at the forefront of all that happens.”
She wanted to make this house, this huge palatial estate, a gigantic revolutionary salon. She had already planned, moreover, for the possibility of violence and intended to hire guards to maintain peace. Anyone could enter, regardless of wealth, politics, or otherwise, so long as they came to discuss the issues openly and peacefully.
“Good Lord, you’ve lost your mind,” Michel said.
“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Jérémie exclaimed.
“What does your darling fiancé think?” Michel asked sarcastically.
“Leave him out of this. That’s my affair. Jérémie is with me. What about you two?”
“I’ll not listen to this.”
“Running away again, Michel?”
Michel slumped into a chair, but Xavier’s silence bothered Catherine more than Michel’s, bombast, whose reaction she predicted.
“Let’s retire to dinner,” she announced. “I want everyone’s opinion. Except yours,” she looked at Michel and shoved them toward the dining room. As Michel and Jérémie went ahead, Catherine walked slowly beside Xavier.
“Are you angry at me, too?”
Xavier smiled. “No, not at all. You know that I don’t like to provoke Michel.”
“Is that all?”
He didn’t respond.
“Well, do you approve?”
“I trust your judgment.”
“Then what is really bothering you? Tell me.”
“I’m scared. It’s embarrassing, perhaps stupid, but all this talk, and the rioting, the military outside Paris, it hints at impending violence.”
“Have you talked to Thomas?”
“He’s like you. He finds it fascinating and isn’t bothered that a few people might die in order to oust the king.”
She squeezed his arm in support. “Perhaps we’ll discuss that later.” She pulled him gently with her. “This has become the first official meeting of the Saint-Laurent salon,” Catherine pronounced as she entered the dining room. “All opinions are welcome. I suppose even yours, Michel, so long as you’re open to everyone else’s ideas.”
“I’m open to discussing this plan, especially its danger.”
“Did you not hear me? We’ll listen to you if you listen to us. Please sit. Xavier speaks first.” She did not mean to put Xavier on the spot but she had heard enough from Michel and this would keep him quiet. She was ablaze, positively giddy, with the mere potential for converting this house. She had the financing, the location, and now, supporters.
9 July 1789 Night
THOMAS RACED TOWARD Xavier’s church but even his speed seemed slow as he worried about the abbé. He awoke earlier to a commotion in the street and discovered from a passerby that the city had erupted into rioting and people attacked symbols of power, especially those within the church. Thomas found the church empty so went to the Saint-Laurent home. He quietly went up the front stairs and heard voices through a window—his abbé’s soothing laugh relieved him. Xavier was with Catherine in the dining room, safe. Thomas wanted to run and hug him but thought better of it, so he turned around and walked more slowly back to the church to wait, knowing that Catherine would arrange safe transport for her brother.
Back in Xavier’s parish, Thomas burst into the chapel without knocking and headed for the priest’s private quarters. Since they talked here for privacy, he often let himself in. Thomas wished that he could take Xavier to his flat, with even more privacy than the church offered, but he feared that Xavier would ask too many questions or see something that Thomas wanted to hide because it terrified him to think about Xavier’s reaction if he found out that Thomas was a vampire. Within the small room, Thomas looked out the window and at the things that Xavier collected. He had very little for someone of his wealth. Clothes, all clerical garments, quills, parchment, and books— everywhere there were books, all intellectual and sterile, nothing to betray the deep emotion within the man, nothing personal, nothing to indicate the marvelous personality or cunning wit.
Thomas stretched out on the bed, loving the smell of Xavier upon the sheets. They always had a faint hint of Xavier, a soft scent, not perfumed but not ugly, and Thomas reveled in it. He sat up and looked around one more time, always surprised that only one crucifix hung over a dresser, with nothing else on the walls. He glanced at the sparse setting, everything neatly in its place, but there was not much here and nothing out of order. Xavier even alphabetized his books. Thomas was shocked, however, to see a discarded bone on the floor near the dresser. How unlike Xavier to throw something on the floor. He stooped over to pick it up and saw even more underneath the dresser. His blood ran cold. What was this about? The one set of bones looked like a chicken wing.
He struggled to control himself as he suspected that more was afoot than a carelessly thrown away pile of bones. Anthony had warned him about just such a situation. Both knew that Thomas, of all vampires, would be hard-pressed to maintain his wits without lashing out or killing someone. He considered telling Xavier about it with the hope that together they might persuade Catherine to get away from Marcel. Thomas was loathe, however, to put Xavier in the middle, especially when Catherine might ignore them or even think that they fabricated the story. For Xavier’s sake, Thomas decided to handle this himself. He left a note and left.
Thomas moved with inhuman speed and, as predicted, Anne sat in front of her fire despite the July night’s blistering heat.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite creature of the night. And no, I’m not about to do any potion, tonight, either.”
“This is more serious. I don’t want to put you at risk but I need confirmation of something. In your religion, do chicken bones signal evil intent?”
“My, my, but aren’t you all business? Not talking about love tonight, I see. Instead, you bring disturbed spirits into this place. If I were you, I wouldn’t want to know about those bones.”
Thomas pulled the bones out of his pocket. “It’s too late.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Voodoo, maybe. Perhaps hoodoo. Depends on the source what it means, what it intends. I’m convinced to give you counsel this time,” she said. “This is grave. Chicken bones have the ability to call up evil spirits if ordained with the right words. This is dangerous. If you know who did it—”
Before she finished Thomas uttered a sincere thank you and rushed from the room. She had confirmed his suspicion that the barbarian planted those bones in Xavier’s room to inflict ill upon him and that their first confrontation had failed to squash Marcel’s plans.
Thomas paused outside to gather his senses. He wanted to snap someone in half and kill this devil who haunted Xavier. Without thinking, Thomas slammed his fist into the wall of a small bakery, regretting it as the wall swayed and a hole opened where his fist hit, and then, almost in slow motion, the wall crumbled. Thomas rushed from the scene as people ran out to see what had happened.
He discovered Marcel, predictably, milling about the bars and profiting as usual as he bartered tricolour scarves to patrons who gobbled them up. Thomas rushed forward and whispered to Marcel that they needed to talk. To emphasize his point, he took a fingernail and slashed Marcel’s wrist with a slight gash.
Alone in an alley, Marcel drew a knife and glared at Thomas. Thomas grabbed Marcel’s arm and forced the knife from his hand.
“I thought we had an agreement,” Thomas said, enunciating each word.
“I haven’t harmed the priest.”
“No games. I know about the spy and I found the bones.” He had Marcel by the neck and pushed him against the wall. “I know the meaning of both. I should snap your spine in half.”
“Wait. Let’s talk. But I wouldn’t risk killing me until you know what those bones are about. We can reach another accord.”
Thomas did not believe him, yet Anthony haunted him. Marcel’s presence was about Catherine, not Xavier. Marcel knew too much, and now so did Catherine. Thomas had to be careful.
“I thought that voodoo taught you not to harm or threaten a priest?”
“I’m just trying to keep him from interfering with my engagement. I thought our deal allowed that.”
Thomas slapped him. “You’re to have no contact with him unless by chance, with Catherine in the room. No spies. No bones.” Thomas leaned his face one inch from the man. “Stay away. No bones, no spells, nothing that might endanger the priest. Your spy suffered for your transgressions. I’ve lived up to my end of the bargain. This is the last time I’ll warn you about Xavier.”
He threw Marcel violently against the wall. His head cracked against the wood and he fell to the ground, his eyes dazed as blood ran down his cheek. Yet he still smirked at Thomas, glaring at him with a dangerous menace. What was this man capable of doing?
It took all of the will power Thomas had to leave him alive. To control himself, Thomas fled to the church, where the sight of Xavier talking in the street relieved him immediately. Xavier smiled warmly and beckoned for Thomas. He was talking with a burly man, obviously a worker of some sort, with a gruff appearance and musculature that indicated regular labor.
“Thomas,” Xavier said, “I’d like you to meet Denys Girard.”
Thomas bowed.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Denys said, “I have to go. Thomas, Father Saint-Laurent said that he had an appointment with you and I apologize for taking too much time. I was on security patrol this evening and we’re all worried about our abbé’s safety, so we took it upon ourselves to initiate a guard so that no one harms him.”
Thomas bowed again as the man departed. “Not many priests have a personal guard.”
“Denys came a couple of nights ago with this offer. I really think it unnecessary, but he insisted.”
“I’ve been worried about you, too, what with Paris turning into a battlefield, and I wondered what would protect you from the idiots who indiscriminately attack anything that represents that which they hate.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I’m safe in this parish.”
Xavier always made things sound so simple and easy. Thomas worried about him through the day when the sun forced him into hibernation. More problematic, it made it twice as difficult to be patient because he wanted to bring Xavier over at once. Knowing that these men, strong men, protected Xavier put him at ease.