“Ironic, that there’s nothing now.” He paused, then continued. “I don’t mean that you’re nothing. I love you. Only deep love could keep you next to a complete loss of a human being. I drink to forget. Which, I believe, brings me to the purpose of your visit.”
Xavier lifted the bottle in the air and gulped half of it down. “I’m not prepared to give it up. Sobriety holds no allure. It threatens me with a reality that’s cold and harsh. Leave me to wallow in the drink, for it comforts me with visions of what could’ve been. Here, in my sorrow, I at least have left my memory of happier times and the silly dreams that I created and hoped would some day come true. This shouldn’t affect your happiness. You both mean more to me than you can imagine. I love you, but I’m not ready to accept myself or confront my failures.”
And so the solution that Catherine had known all along once again haunted her. Thomas was the only answer. Only his passion for Xavier could pull her brother out of this funk. What had happened to these two who had always seemed happy? Did Xavier discover the vampire lurking in Thomas? Or had Thomas attacked Xavier? Or was it both? Whatever the answer, she had to find Thomas.
2 September 1792
XAVIER STUMBLED ON the stone street, took another swig of wine, and continued on his clandestine operation. Though they accused him of not caring, the revolution still terribly interested him. He just preferred being alone. Today, he had devised a scheme that ultimately allowed him to sneak out a basement window and into the street. Maria, his guardian at the time, would not miss him until it was too late. He even took a bottle with him. He hurried through Paris to see the crowds and how much they really hated his fellow priests who refused to support their revolution.
It started when some unknown man stormed into the salon in the middle of Xavier’s breakfast and gleefully announced that Catholic tyranny was about to end because the extremists intended to massacre priests. Typically, Maria and Catherine assumed that Xavier’s drunkenness meant he could not comprehend the news, so he had to escape to learn more.
Thomas. Xavier stopped walking. The very name forced him to prop himself up against a wall and take another gulp of wine. The buildings around him spun even though he was stationary. He closed his eyes and dreamt of happier times, first his childhood with Michel and Catherine, the blithe innocence of youth, then about meeting Maria when he got his first parish, and later how he accidentally fell into his relationship with Anne Hébert. But his mind played tricks on him and again he thought of Thomas, of their long walks through Paris and their secret intimacy. Then he fantasized what it would have been like to let himself go—if God did not have him captive. Ah, the joy of traveling across the ocean with Thomas as his escort. As his lover. No matter how much he drank or remained faithful to the church, he desperately wished for that.
Xavier chugged the rest of the wine and threw the bottle to the ground where it broke with a crash. He wiped the wine that had spilled off his chin, then smeared it across his shirt. He tried to straighten his clothing but it was hard to concentrate. Besides, he was on a mission. But where was he going?
Oh, yes. The massacre of the priests. He almost forgot. He headed for the prisons to see if it were true that they intended to kill priests who refused to obey the revolutionary government.
Xavier reached down to play with his cross, a very old habit, and then remembered that it was no longer there. Priests had to wear lay clothing after this latest government outlawed clerical garments entirely. He thought it funny for anyone to care that much about what someone wore. He laughed, and it felt good. He did that rarely now.
He was near the prisons when he confronted the first mob. He had not seen them because he had to watch the ground carefully as he walked or he would trip. They shouted revolutionary slogans and anti-Catholic epithets, and there was the usual burning of the pope in effigy. The crowd shoved Xavier around as it moved toward the prisons. Fearing that he could not stand alone or he might be trampled, Xavier worked his way into an alcove, as if God showed him this spot because it offered a perfect view of the scene before him yet also protected him.
After Xavier focused on the people, it took a moment because of the wine, Xavier spotted what attracted them. They had carts—jail carts— full of shackled priests, some of whom Xavier recognized, including his bishop, who had a deformed and broken pinky on his hand that clutched an iron bar. Xavier might have laughed at seeing him in prison if not for the tragedy that surrounded such a sight. Each priest that Xavier knew had something to do with church hierarchy or had sided against the revolution. He had never gotten along with most of them, but it still disgusted him to see people shouting and spitting at the defenseless men.
Only a few men stood between the carts and the mob, bravely protecting the priests. Were they soldiers?
Then, as the masses became further enraged, someone joined Xavier in the alcove. Even drunk, Xavier recognized him, but the newcomer had no idea that he shared a space with Xavier.
“Damn scum clergy, I hate ’em all,” Marcel said with a smirk. When had he returned from America? Why had he not come to their home to see Catherine? “Bet they won’t get out of here alive.”
Afraid, Xavier went along with the game. In his eternal drunkenness, Xavier had forgotten about his sister’s wretched fiancé.
“You think they want to kill the priests?” Xavier asked.
“What else?”
“Are you here to kill the priests?”
“No, my mission is personal. My, but you’ve wine all over yourself. You damned slob.” Marcel slapped Xavier on the back and continued to make fun of him. Then he looked around suspiciously. “As I said, my business is personal. I have to take care of a problem.”
Even in his fogged state, Xavier’s heart was in his throat.
“And here it comes,” Marcel said as he glanced away.
Xavier looked, too, at the ring of guards that surrounded the priests. Now he saw that they were soldiers, from their rigid posture and strength, though out of uniform. They pushed people away from the carts and tried to stop the assaults. The mob toyed with them and laughed.
“There he is, the scoundrel I’ve hunted.” Marcel talked more to himself than Xavier, but Xavier listened fearfully. “I sent men after him, good men, brave men who’d fight anything, and they failed. One of them died and the other refused to be involved anymore. So it’s left to me.”
“What’s left to you?” Xavier struggled to stand against the wall and talk at the same time.
“Ah, you drunken fool. Don’t you see that I’m trying to kill someone? He doesn’t want me near his sister.”
Michel. Dear God, Xavier had to do something. But where was Michel? Xavier jerked his head around, scanning the courtyard but saw only hordes and hordes of unidentifiable people yelling at the priests.
“Maybe you should reconsider,” Xavier said.
“I’ve had enough of you.”
Marcel shoved Xavier aside. Too drunk to keep his balance, Xavier thudded to the dirt and fumbled around trying to get up. He kept falling down because the wine controlled his senses as the world spun at twice its normal rate. Xavier did see Marcel grab a bag at his side and pour a white powder into his palm, chanting a spell over it with a bird claw.
“And by the power of your suffering you shall make others suffer.” Xavier grabbed at Marcel’s leg as he chanted but was kicked in the face and fell back. “As you were delirious at the end of your life make this one, too, blind and confused.” Xavier lurched forward but landed several feet short of Marcel. “Finally, protect me who worships your designs on earth.”
It took all the effort he could muster to pull himself up and scan the mob.
There was Marcel, with his unmistakable slouch, pushing through the crowd. Xavier started forward but stumbled back against the wall. Marcel jeered at the men who protected the priests and blended into the mob. However, he shoved to the front and threw the powder at a guard. Michel turned just as the dust hit his coat and blew into his face. Xavier again tried to move forward but his steps were slow and uneven. He had to save Michel, but could only flounder.
Xavier watched helplessly as Michel staggered and looked around bewildered. He grabbed his head and then reached for his sword. His eyes were glassy, as if he could not focus on anything, and he failed to answer his men’s questions. Xavier gathered himself enough to walk— slowly and by running into people—but he was finally in motion.
Then Xavier experienced time as if it had slowed down, each motion suspended. Xavier noticed the expression on everyone’s face, especially Michel’s pure bewilderment. First Michel took out his sword, and then the mob attacked. They came from everywhere, ripped apart the carriages, and pulled out the priests. They threw rocks, beat on the bodies, and screamed. One by one, the masses murdered the priests and attacked anyone who defended them.
Xavier still muddled forward, but too late.
Before his eyes clouded with tears, some men threw Michel against the wall. Brave, strong, Michel, who normally could have commanded the situation, could not control his muscles. His head bled badly when another stole his sword and plunged it into his chest. Then, unceremoniously, they let him fall to the ground.
Despondent, Xavier shoved himself forward suddenly to reach Michel. Without thinking, he yanked his brother off the ground and dragged him away from the angry masses, who still attacked. He managed to get a couple of blocks away before the alcohol and fatigue dulled his senses. Xavier had to stop, so he carefully propped Michel against the wall in a quiet alley. Then he saw that in carrying Michel he forced the sword deeper into his chest.
“Michel...dear God, Michel. Talk to me. Please. Oh, how I have failed.”
Michel, with labored breathing, smiled slightly at his brother. He weakly reached up and touched Xavier’s head.
“Xavier, my little brother,” he whispered. Blood spewed out his mouth.
“We need help. I couldn’t save you.” Xavier started for a doctor but turned around, afraid to leave. Michel motioned for Xavier to come closer.
“Stay with me. Don’t leave. There’s nothing that can be done.”
Xavier wanted to protest and demand that Michel fight for his life, but looking at the wound and the blood, he knew better, so he slumped against Michel’s body and clung to it tightly.
“Xavier,” Michel stuttered. “I love you. Please, you can’t blame yourself or try to be responsible for everything in the world.”
“It’s my fault. I could have saved you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“I saw him do it,” Xavier sobbed.
“Who?”
“Marcel. I can never forgive myself.”
Michel, who held Xavier in return, scolded him fiercely. “I’ve but moments. I don’t have time for drunken games. This wasn’t you. Protect Catherine. This Marcel is evil. He’s the culprit, not you.”
“But—”
Michel’s eyes widened in what had to be pain. He again hugged Xavier and as the last breath escaped his body, whispered to him, “I love you. I’ll always watch over you.” And Michel’s body relaxed into dead weight in Xavier’s arms. Xavier screamed with rage and agony.
“God, damn you! How have you let this happen to him? You wanted me to serve you. I gave up all my dreams for you, and this is how you repay me? I renounce you! I’ll never again believe that any goodness governs this dark and horrible world.”
Xavier had no idea how long he lay there, passed out, but he awoke when some officials came by picking up dead bodies.
“Is he dead?” they asked, pointing to Michel.
“No, no.” Xavier answered. His head pounded. He was not as drunk, which made him feel even worse. He cried the second he looked at Michel’s limp body.
Resolved to do something, he awkwardly picked up his brother, maneuvering him over his shoulders, and carried him toward the house, staggering beneath Michel’s weight. He had no idea why he did this, but it made him feel good to do something.
He was slightly lost when someone stopped him.
“Abbé?” Xavier looked blankly at the newcomer. “Abbé, it’s me, Denys. Oh, abbé.”
Denys helped set Michel down, and Xavier cried into his shoulder.
“Abbé, let me help. You can’t go this way.”
“Isn’t this the shortest way?” Xavier wept and his head hurt terribly. He needed another glass of wine. He wanted to bless a barrel of wine and then pour it all over the ground to show that God was nothing.
“Abbé, please let me help. You can’t take this route, it passes Ata Carmelite Convent.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m afraid that someone would recognize you.”
“So? Isn’t that just one of the places that they imprisoned the priests?”
“There are no more priests or nuns there. They attacked them this afternoon. I heard that there were over one hundred fifty of them, all murdered and mutilated.”
Denys pulled him up. He lifted Michel onto his back and then took the priest’s hand and led him along.
Denys and Xavier plodded along until they reached the Saint-Laurent house. They walked up the front stairs, and guards shouted and moved people out of the way. Without knowing how he got there, Xavier glanced around the main greeting room, where they gently placed Michel on the couch. For the first time, Xavier saw Michel’s blood everywhere, covering Denys and the white couch fabric in crimson. Xavier, too, was bloody. Oh, Michel, he thought. I have failed you.
Xavier sat away from everyone as they looked at Michel or fussed over his body. What were they doing? Then Catherine entered the room hurriedly. She stopped in the doorway and stared at Michel in shock, wavered a bit, but typical of his sister she remained strong. Always in command of the situation, she barked orders and began the funeral arrangements at once. Only Xavier saw the fight within her to maintain control. Then her tears came.
“Xavier?” Catherine asked. “Where’s Xavier?”
Denys pointed him out. Xavier would have gone to her but found he could not move.