“I think the people need to see what they are being asked to believe in—democracy, in this case,” Paine said. “What harm can there be in a parade?”
“Exactly!” Lafayette said, nodding his head enthusiastically. “It is not a ‘vain spectacle,’ as Monsieur Marat claims. It is a ceremony of harmony, a ritual of fraternity.”
The clock on Lafayette’s mantel struck four. Marcus leaped to his feet, shocked to see so much time had passed. He was late.
“I must go,” he said. “I have an appointment with friends.”
“My carriage can take you,” Lafayette said, ringing a bell that rested by his elbow.
“My appointment is just down the road, and I’ll be faster on foot.” Marcus was strangely reluctant to leave Paine, and for a moment he considered changing his plans, but his loyalty prevented it. “Good-bye, Mr. Paine.”
“I hope our paths cross again, Monsieur de Clermont,” Paine said. “At the marquis’s celebration, if not before.”
“I’d like that, Mr. Paine. Grand-mère.” Marcus bowed to Ysabeau.
“Don’t be a stranger,” his grandmother said, the corners of her mouth lifted into the shadow of a smile.
Marcus headed for the door as quickly as he could without alarming Mr. Paine.
“Marcus?” Ysabeau called after him.
Marcus turned.
His grandmother had picked up the red wool hat that Marcus had left on his chair in his haste to get away. It was a visible sign of Marcus’s allegiance to the ideals of the Revolution.
“Don’t forget your cap,” she said.
* * *
—
CAFé PROCOPE WAS PACKED with hot, sweating bodies. There was barely room to stand, and Marcus was like a salmon swimming against the current as he tried to make his way from the door to the back corner where his friends were waiting.
“Marcus? Is that you?” Fanny waved her hand in greeting. She was wearing a plain silk gown in revolutionary white. Her unpowdered hair was tumbling around her shoulders in the new style being adopted by all the finest ladies, and she wore a version of Marcus’s distinctive red hat—hers made by one of the most expensive milliners in town.
“Fanny!” Having successfully avoided his family for almost two months, Marcus could not seem to avoid them today. “You’re far from home.”
“This is the Quartier Latin, not Africa,” Fanny replied, making rapid progress toward him through a series of deft moves that included treading upon others’ feet, throwing elbows into ribs, and batting her eyes at the men. “The traffic through town is terrible, of course, so I abandoned my carriage on the Pont Neuf and walked the rest of the way. What brings you here?”
“I live here,” Marcus said, his eyes searching the room for Veronique.
“With Danton and his band of murderers and thieves?” Fanny shook her head. “Charles said you and Veronique were crammed into a tiny attic with six other creatures. It sounded dreadful. You should move back into my house. It’s far more comfortable.”
“Veronique and I moved out of the attic.” Marcus gave up searching for Veronique with his eyes and tried using his nose and ears instead. “We’re living in a second-floor apartment now. One closer to the Sorbonne.”
“Who is your tailor these days?” Fanny wondered, looking him over. “Given the cut of that coat, you look as if you belong in Lafayette’s salon, not the Cordeliers Club. Except for the cap, of course.”
Marcus’s eyes narrowed at her mention of the marquis. “What are you and Ysabeau up to, Fanny?”
“Ysabeau?” Fanny shrugged. “You’re spending too much time with Marat. Now you think there are conspirators behind every door. You know perfectly well that we don’t get along.”
It was true that his grandmother and his aunt were usually shooting conversational barbs into each other at family dinners, but Marcus couldn’t help but feel he was being managed.
“Liberté! égalité! Fraternité!”
The chant of the Cordeliers Club echoed through the room. It had started in the back corner, where Marcus had agreed to meet Marat.
The crowds parted and Jean-Paul emerged from them, the soft tip of his red cap falling over one eye, holding a fist of paper in his hand. Georges Danton was behind him, ready to escort the daemon to whatever underground lair he would occupy tonight. With them was Veronique.
“Marcus!” Veronique’s cheeks were flushed. She was wearing the authentic revolutionary dress on which Fanny’s fashionable version was modeled. “We expected you hours ago.”
“I was delayed,” Marcus apologized. He moved to kiss her.
Veronique sniffed his coat.
“You’ve been with Ysabeau,” she said. “You promised—”
“Ysabeau was visiting Lafayette,” Marcus said, interrupting Veronique in his haste to reassure her that he had not broken his word. “I had no idea that she would be there.”
“Lafayette! You see, I told you he cannot be trusted,” Marat muttered to Danton. “He is a de Clermont, and like all aristocrats, he would rather slit the belly of your wife and rip out the heart of your infant son than give up one of his privileges.”
“You know that isn’t true, Jean-Paul.” Marcus couldn’t believe what his friend was saying.
“Come away,” Fanny murmured, tugging on his sleeve. “There’s no point in arguing with him.”
A knot of spectators was gathering around them, roughly dressed and well into their third or fourth drinks. Most of them were filthy, rags tied around their necks to absorb the sweat and grime as though they had come straight from doing menial labor at the Champs de Mars.
“Wake up, Marcus,” Marat said, his tone vicious. “Those people are not your true family. Lafayette is not your friend. They want only to use you for their own purposes, to further their own designs. You are a de Clermont puppet, jerking every time one of them pulls your strings.”
Marcus looked mutely at Veronique, waiting for her to defend him. But Veronique did not jump to his rescue, and Fanny did.
“You’re very brave, Marat, so long as you’re hiding in the sewers, or behind your newspaper, or surrounded by your friends,” Fanny said calmly, linking her arm through Marcus’s elbow. “When you’re on your own, though, I bet you piss yourself when a bug farts.”
There were laughs from some of their audience. Not from Marat, though. Nor Veronique.
“You’re all traitors,” Marat hissed, his eyes wild. He was every inch a daemon now, and the human patrons began to draw away from him as if they could sense his strangeness. “Soon you’ll all be forced to flee, like rats.”
“Maybe, Jean-Paul.” Fanny shrugged. “But like the rats, Marcus and I will survive long after you are nothing but bones and dust. Remember that, before you insult my family again.”
* * *
—
WEEKS AFTER THE ARGUMENT at Café Procope, Marcus trudged home from the Marquis de Lafayette’s grand anniversary ceremony covered in mud, his clothes soaked through to the skin. A positively biblical deluge had rained on the parades, the military exercises, the royal family, and the Parisians who flocked to the Champs de Mars.
In spite of the weather, it had been a triumph. No one had been accidentally shot. The king had behaved. More importantly, the outspoken queen Marie Antoinette had played her role to perfection, holding the dauphin and promising to honor the ideals of the Revolution. Lafayette had sworn an oath to defend the constitution. All of Paris cheered, even though the only creatures in attendance who could hear everything that was said were vampires like Marcus.
Most in Paris would have agreed that Lafayette’s celebration convinced the nation that the worst was behind them and that progress had been made. Unfortunately for Marcus, Veronique and Marat were not among them. They had refused to attend the events.