At the Bastille’s outskirts, she saw that the moment had arrived. Many people fled the scene, especially women, as the violence escalated to new heights. A huge mass of angry people, out of control, lashed out. Yet even as many ran in terror, nothing frightened Catherine.
As the Bastille came into view and she pressed forward, the crowd suddenly rushed toward the structure, shouting as one. They stormed the Bastille, pushing past guards and slaughtering them. Catherine, like others near her, got caught in the thrust though she did not lift a hand against anyone. Guns fired into the mob and people fell to the ground, which further enraged the rabble, causing them to shove with more determination. More and more guards fell and, before she knew it, she stood at the Bastille’s entrance, watching hordes of peasants run inside with drawn weapons.
They liberated prisoners. They took control, and no threat to their safety stopped them. She stood there watching with fascination, numb to the killing and feeling like nothing more than a distant observer. Surprisingly, no one paid her any attention as some man took lead of the mob and championed his cause by denouncing the monarchy and by shouting at the crowd, exhorting them on.
Though it felt like this took place in the blink of an eye, the sun’s position indicated that she had been there a couple of hours. She only noticed that time had passed when things slowed and the violence halted.
People still poured in and out of the Bastille after they had freed every prisoner and murdered every guard. Catherine expected soldiers to arrive, but none did. A few regiments formed on the outskirts of the mob but quickly retreated whenever spotted because the people attacked without provocation. This was anarchy.
Catherine was finally shocked out of her trance when the peasants dragged a recognizable face into their midst and surrounded him. They threw Jacques de Flesselles, a man Catherine knew as a rich merchant, to the ground, bleeding, in front of her. Apparently, he had become their aristocratic symbol of oppression. They took turns kicking and spitting on him. This scene finally sparked Catherine’s fear because they attacked someone she knew, not some nameless oppressor. When the mob leaders had had enough, they charged into the center of the people surrounding him, grabbed him by the hair, and cut his head off. Catherine turned away, sick. This was not a glorious revolution. This was something different altogether.
But she stayed despite her dread. Perhaps being a woman—an albatross for so much of her life because it limited her options and forced her to rely on men—protected her somehow. She was inconsequential, and ignored. She did not see any other women from her class and only men were attacked.
Next the horde dragged the Bastille’s governor, the Marquis de Launay, outside. The poor Marquis, she had entertained him at her home when Michel had his military friends to dinner. He was always pleasant...what on earth did they intend to do to him?
Whack! His head rolled into the street to cheers.
The atmosphere quieted enough that Catherine finally moved, still numb. She thought what had happened was predictable, but she was unable to support the uprising, either, because the violence somehow debased it. Hundreds of people milled about, and it was clear that the masses firmly controlled the Bastille.
After touring the inside with everyone else, still mesmerized by the scene, Catherine exited the prison to a surprising sight. Marcel, her precious Marcel, was across the street, talking to a couple of former prisoners. He sold them something—she had no idea what—but he appeared to be very busy. He also looked positively handsome. But why was he here? He had told her that he had to leave Paris. She wanted to go over to him but thought better of it, so she instead watched him for a couple more minutes, admiring his charm and the way he persuaded people into purchasing his wares. He did keep looking around like a frightened rabbit and then, when a new mob marched down the street singing patriotic songs and shouting, he bolted the other way. How odd, Catherine thought. She would need to ask him about this when next she saw him. She doubted she could find him in the crowds, so she spent the remainder of the afternoon watching the people, listening to their excitement, and absorbing the reality of it all. The Bastille had fallen to the commoners, the people in the streets, and it was anyone’s guess what would happen next.
She left only when the rain came. It started as a light sprinkle but then came down more heavily and people headed for cover. Catherine, entirely drenched, started back toward the house. The one power that still had control over all—Mother Nature—ended the sightseeing at the Bastille. Despite this weather, Catherine saw a few pockets of resistance and fighting, which she carefully avoided, often crossing the street or turning the corner.
She turned down one narrow alleyway, took a few steps, and realized her mistake. The residents had set up a blockade. They trapped people once they came down the street and charged a toll. How vile, to profit from current misery. But they had also constructed a makeshift prison and apparently had some criteria that sent certain Parisians into this exile. Catherine almost asked one of the women about their little racket when someone pulled her from behind and yanked her back around the corner.
“What are you doing here?” the man shouted.
One of the peasants, someone hideously deformed and dirty, had attacked her. Catherine halted a scream, afraid it would just bring more degenerates to assault her. “Leave me alone. I’m one of you,” she pleaded with fright.
“For God’s sake, Catherine, it’s me.”
“Michel?”
“Get out of here. Stay at home.”
“You look dreadful. What are you doing? What’s happened to you?”
“I’m in disguise, not unlike yourself, and I risk too much talking to you.” He pushed her back into the street and pointed in the direction of their house. “Go straight down this street. Now.”
He shoved her and raced away. She obeyed, not because she ever took Michel’s orders, but because she wanted to get home anyway and for once, he was right.
Ahead of her, closer to her neighborhood, another fight broke out. Thankfully, the crowd had already dispersed by the time she had walked two more blocks. However, the sight of a cowering man lying in the middle of the street appalled her. His bloodied face looked better than the obviously broken bones that jutted from his limbs. His clothing betrayed his merchant status, another innocent victim of mob terror, in the wrong place at the wrong time.
She almost passed by but stopped. This was the perfect example of what she wanted for her salon. Complete blindness to political affiliation or status. Perhaps he was a fiend, but how could she know? She hopped off the sidewalk and hunched over the man, who was breathing but not conscious. His head bled profusely.
She had to take him to her hospital. She started to lift him but he was extremely heavy, and then she noticed some women watching her.
“He’s not one of us,” one of the women finally shouted at her, waving a tricoloured scarf in the air. Had they attacked this poor man simply because he failed to wear blue, white, and red? She took one of the scarves from around her neck and placed it around the man’s. It seemed trivial as he lay injured, but perhaps it would give them safe passage. She had tied it safely when the two women came over and hovered above her.
“We said he ain’t one of us.”
14 July 1789 Dusk
“I’M ONLY TRYING to take him off the street,” Catherine explained to the two glaring women as she held the poor, beaten merchant in her arms. “He’s actually very supportive of the revolution. I’ve seen him with a scarf many times.”
One woman shook her head and laughed. “We know him. I suppose you got the colors on to try to protect yourself. You need to learn that you’re not welcome in our parts.” She shoved Catherine into the mud. Though enraged, Catherine remained calm, afraid that more barbarians might materialize to attack her.
“You’re wrong,” she said. “I support this revolution.”
“Give us money and we’ll let you go. But you’re leaving him to die like he should.”
Catherine seldom traveled with money and had nothing with her, but these two would never believe her and she had every intention of saving this gentleman. “Please, let us pass. We’re no threat to you.”
“Are you deaf, bitch?” They both kicked her back into the mud and one of them stepped on her chest with a heel that dug into her bosom. Catherine heaved forward and knocked them back but they came at her again with snarls.
“Ladies!” a male voice said. “I suggest you leave her alone.”
“Who the hell are you? You won’t hurt no women, so mind your business. I see you don’t wear a scarf, either. Maybe our men need to teach you the same lesson.”
Catherine’s eyes were covered with muck, so she only saw a dark figure.
“I think not,” the man said.
He walked toward her in the street. Catherine scrambled to her feet when the women withdrew slowly. As she stood, she heard one of them start to recite the rosary while the other ran away at full speed. She wiped the mud from her eyes in order to see more clearly.
The sight of Thomas with his fangs descended explained their fear as he wordlessly picked her up. Catherine watched his fangs retract, stifling a giggle despite what had just happened.
With no effort, Thomas bent over and picked up the wounded man in his other arm. He started down the street, turned onto Rue St. Denis, and carried both of them the entire way.
“Thomas, I can walk.”
“We have to get there quickly.”
Catherine marveled at the vampiric power before her. Their speed exceeded anything she had ever witnessed and Thomas carried both of them around with no effort whatsoever. How did he do this? She barely saw the buildings pass. She had assumed that vampirism made him different than mortal men, but this went beyond her wildest imagination.
Graciously, Thomas set her down two houses before the Saint-Laurent home so that no one saw her helplessness. He walked a human’s pace with her to the front door, where guards ushered them inside.
“Take this man to the doctor at once,” she said. Their expressions reminded her that she must look a fright, covered in mud and disheveled. She pretended that nothing was askew, trying to maintain decorum. Thomas handed the man to three attendants who almost fell from the weight.
“Catherine, go clean yourself,” Thomas said.
“You won’t leave?”
“No, I’ll wait.”
She needed Thomas to stay, though she could not explain why or the desperation that welled inside her. She had to sit down alone with him. Afraid that he would leave to find Xavier, she hurriedly changed into something dry, wiped off as much mud as possible, and barely fixed her hair before going back to the parlor. As promised, Thomas had waited.
“I’m sorry, I should have offered you dry clothing,” she said.
“Nonsense.”
“Well, if you want anything, let me know. It’s the least I can do after you saved my life.”
“It was nothing. I was passing and happened to see that you might need some help.”
She could tell that he tried not to offend her. Xavier had probably schooled him on her fierce independence, which made her laugh aloud. “I realize that I’ve the power to get men to walk on eggshells, but you’ve nothing to worry about. I truly appreciate what you did, and it doesn’t bother me in the least.”
“Was I that transparent?” He smiled at her.
“I’ve a feeling that Xavier exaggerates my temper. Unless you change your name to Michel, I doubt that you can get that response.”
“Regardless, I’m glad that I could be of service. What were you doing, anyway?”
“That poor man,” Catherine answered. “He was dying. I couldn’t pass without doing something. I didn’t see those vultures until it was too late. Thank God I had on my scarf or they would’ve come after me sooner.”
“You have the compassion of your brother,” Thomas said.
“What’s that supposed to mean? And why are you laughing?”
“I meant no offense. It’s a charming characteristic. I had no idea that it ran in the Saint-Laurent blood, this total compassion for everyone, including strangers.”
Catherine poured herself some wine before answering. “I don’t suppose that you drink anything?” She held the bottle up.
“I can but do so only for pretense, which I don’t feel the need for with you.”
“Good. I’m sorry I don’t have any blood, but there’s plenty on the streets for you.” Thomas laughed heartily. “I’ve yet to find a good mortal family that will stock blood for me,” he said. “But I meant what I said, about your compassion.”
“I assume you know that Xavier’s compassion extends to everyone, but mine is more limited. He’s like an angel whereas my pity is more selective. I’d hate to think that you saw me as innocent as my brother.”
“Of course I recognize the difference, shall we say, in terms of your perception of reality. Why do you think your actions today surprised me?”
Since Thomas had admitted his vampirism, some nagging worry haunted Catherine. Now she realized that she had unconsciously clung to myths about the undead and their evil nature, which especially troubled her as Thomas courted her brother. But his actions today, and his admiration for her rescuing the injured merchant, not to mention his love for Xavier, answered her question. How could he have assisted if he did not care for humanity? He was not a monster, despite this eternal life in darkness. He had human emotion and compassion.
She nonetheless struggled with this relationship between her brother and Thomas. If Thomas came to her separately, away from her family and with regard to unrelated matters, Catherine could accept all that he expressed and desired without reservation. But Thomas did not merely love another man, nor was he simply a vampire searching for love. He had become her brother’s lover. And what did that mean for Xavier? Would he, too, become a vampire?
Could she accept Xavier’s transformation? Never mind whether or not he could cope with such a reality. She wondered how she felt and, in truth, had no idea.