le loup et le lapin (9)
anonymous
September 8 2010, 11:09:15 UTC
He knocked at the door. No answer. He opened it, and Matthieu was flying with his face into the pillows. For a moment, he thought Matthieu might be crying, but when he came up, he was dry eyed. He searched out for his lunettes, a guarded expression on his face.
"Perhaps you should go see Arthur, since you are so very close?" Matthieu said curtly.
Little Matthieu turning jealous and petty, who'd have thought? Francis was glad to see he had a little spark in him after all.
"I'm going to be leaving now, I'm sure Arthur has tired of my presence by now," Francis said. "I just wanted to make sure you hadn't gone out angry and were walking the streets of London alone."
"You're leaving?" Matthieu said, sounding like a very small child.
"Yes, I think I've seen enough of Arthur for the next ten years. We can never spend much time together without battling, you see? I could go for a little more sparring, but it seems to distress you, so..."
"Please don't leave," Matthieu said suddenly. "Is it my fault? I am sorry for getting angry and saying things. I'll just keep quiet next time-"
"No, I deserved that, and in truth, I'm glad to see such a side to you."
"But you'll return, right?" Mathieu said.
"Probably not, mon petit. Arthur and I can only stand so much of each other. The bad fights haven't even started yet."
Matthieu reached out and took ahold of his sleeve. He did not say anything, but steadily held onto him, which said much more than words could. He leaned forward to kiss Matthieu's forehead, and brushed aside that stray curl.
"We will meet again someday, petit," Francis said. He gathers the hat and coat left at Matthieu's bedside, a time which seems not hours, but days before, and leaves out the door without another word.
le loup et le lapin (10)
anonymous
September 8 2010, 11:12:27 UTC
*
Francis drifted for the next few days. He knew his money was dwindling, but he felt remarkably listless. Exiled from his home, in a smokey, boring place such as London without the wonders and artistic nature of his beloved Paris, he was in poor spirits. Meeting with Anglerre - and Matthieu - had lifted his spirits momentarily, but it didn't distract him from the fact that in a few weeks he wouldn't have a coin to his name and would be kicked to join the street urchins.
Maybe he could charm his way into a wealthy heiress' heart....or simply her bed. He could not see himself a menial worker here, and neither his revolutionary nor ties to nobility, despised as it was, would do any good. Arthur didn't look like he'd be doing anything to help, except perhaps to give him enough rope to hang himself with.
Visiting Matthieu on the sly seemed unlikely. Arthur had a keenness so deep Francis sometimes suspected him of witchery. Matthieu and teasing Arthur had been the only bright spots in his exile thus far, and teasing Arthur only went so far before it got tedious and tiresome.
One thing was sure, however: his coins were slowly dwindling, and he had to find a way to increase them, whether it be to beg, gamble, steal or borrow.
He decided on a walk. On the way, he studied the street urchins for possibilities. He had set his mind that he would choose a child to be his accomplice. He thought children more trustworthy, being less likely to backstab, for their empty stomachs kept them focused on the next meal. He picked out one of the cleaner looking urchins and gave him a coin, implied that there would be more where that came from if he stayed true, and then he had an errand boy.
The boy's name was George, and his Northern accent was terribly thick. His had reddish-brown hair, a face almost devoured by freckles, and the same stilted, grimy and scrawny body covered by ratty clothes that all street urchins who had been there a very long time possessed.
He looked clever enough, and yet lacked that enterprising gleam, that falseness that some of the more devious contained. Francis knew it well, having seen that very expression on his own face before; he could find a liar in a second, having superior experience in the trade.
le loup et le lapin (11)
anonymous
September 8 2010, 11:17:45 UTC
*
George proved worth the coins he had been given quickly. He'd do his job quickly, hungrily looking for more coins. He'd all but camp out at the door of Francis' room, stopping anyone who didn't meet the inspection of "Mister Bonnifoi"
On the first week since he'd landed and met Arthur and Matthieu, he had risen late, a little hungover, and desultory. There certainly was work in London, it just happened to be dirty, smelly and altogether tedious. The thought of splitting his soft hands carrying crates made his nose turn in disgust.
He was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. He hadn't even heard the knock.
"There iz someone to see ya, sir."
"Thank you, George," Francis said.
Matthieu stepped forward until he stood in the doorway. He was flushed, a mix of the walk there and embarrassment, Francis thought.
"Mon petit, to what do I owe this surprise?"
"I...I just wanted to see you again," Matthieu said. "When you left, Master Kirkland was so angry...he's been in an angry drunken stupor the whole time."
"Ahh...you need not worry, for that is how we are. We fight like cats and dogs whenever we are around each other."
"I can see that..." Matthieu said with a wan smile.
He had a book under one arm, and Francis tilted his head to try and read the title.
"Did you come to read to me, cher?" Francis said, amused.
"No...I came for no reason, just to see you again," Matthieu said.
"Then you just happened to bring a book along with you? It must have been a long walk, carrying that."
"Ah, this. I purchased it while I was out. It was my excuse," Matthieu said.
"You shouldn't walk alone these kinds of streets. They're full of wicked people, you know? I stay around here for it is cheaper and the company is interesting, but they might take advantage of someone like you," Francis said.
Matthieu looked down, abashed. "I am sorry. I cannot tell neighborhoods very well."
Francis lifted his chin. "Do not apologize; your innocence is charming."
"I haven't been in London long...it all seems the same to me," Matthieu said.
"Dirty and smokey? Lacking in anything nearing culture? Nothing compared the our beloved City of Lights?"
"I lived in the country," Matthieu said. "It was very isolated."
"Ahhh, a shame. You saw the City of Lights before you left for this cesspool, I hope?"
"Yes....I saw it," Matthieu said solemnly.
"You never forget Paris once you have witnessed its beauty," Francis said, his voice turning warm with fond nostalgia.
"I will surely never forget it," Matthieu said, but his voice still sounded grave.
"You don't have to stay away, however. I have a boy who watches out for things. If you give him something, he will likely walk you home, and they won't attack you seeing one of their own. If you have no coins, some food will also suffice," Francis said. "I'll notify him. He's fairly trustworthy if you're paying him well."
"Now, let us see this volume... Voltaire? You wish me to read you Candide?"
"It was the first I was able to buy here," Matthieu said. "I left behind many books when I traveled here."
"And what a loss it must have been. Hmmm, a satirical novel...and here I was thinking you'd bring me some wicked book of romance with fallen women and-"
Matthieu blushed so hard that Francis broke off into chuckling.
"Rest, for surely you've walked a long ways. My accommodations are humble, but I hope they will suffice," Francis said.
"I do not mind," Matthieu said.
Matthieu laid down on the bed, and Francis pulled the chair until he was beside the bedside. He read it, graceful and proud, his voice quite good in tone for proclamations and readings and theatre. He'd been a favorite in the courts, something of a plaything for his looks, and half noble status. To them, he might have well have been a pet, half-animal and half-human to be ordered at will.
Matthieu watched him in an adoring way. Just the presence of him was a balm to soothe the thoughts of his past. Reading to him was also calming. He could get into a rhythm, and knowing that Matthieu was here, his mind wouldn't be wandering while he was drinking, gambling or flirting to Matthieu. His heath, his safety, his whereabouts, this close, Francis could answer every question.
le loup et le lapin (12)
anonymous
September 8 2010, 11:22:34 UTC
When Matthieu left, two of the men watched him go. They did it slyly, like any person who wasn't of the nobles and couldn't afford to flaunt it where it couldn't be paid away with gold and influence. He felt something clench deep inside him. He couldn't help thinking: If they ever try to hurt him, I'd kill them.
He'd killed men before. With knives to the throat over a gambling debt, or lead them to the guillotine which in itself, was as good as drawing the blade across their throats himself. He wouldn't hesitate in a moment. To make his point, he draped his arm over Matthieu's shoulder's and leaned to whisper something in his ear. He was rewarded with a lovely rosy blush from Matthieu, and a sharp pointed look back towards the possible usurpers got his meaning across.
Seeing Matthieu lifted his spirits enough to inquire of the lady of the house as to whether he might be of assistance. She smiled back with an enigmatic expression and said she would let him know if he was needed. Should that fail, he could try his luck with gambling, and perhaps even offering his body to the richer women? He'd been whoring himself to nobles for a long time, and knew how to lie to them just enough to swindle and steal before he sent them off to the guillotine.
*
As it was, it was George who got him a job.
"Mistriss said you were needin' a job," George said. He took a quick look behind him, which alerted Francis that it would an interesting proposal indeed.
"It would depend on the kind of work you were offering," Francis said. "My constitution is too delicate for things like dockwork and menial labor."
"No, it's nothin' like that....just you look like a gentleman and all. People won't suspect ya of things."
"And what kind of things would this entail?" Francis asked.
"Ya wouldn't have to do the thievin'. Just the distractin'. Mistriss said you were a good talker, all charming like. Said you could talk the gold right off a laidy."
Francis smiled. His hands wouldn't be sullied, and he would get the benefits of pay simply by being charming. This was work he could live with.
"I think we have a deal," Francis said.
*
They started by finding a target. As much as he liked charming pretty women or men, he couldn't quite bring himself to rob them. So it was that he focused on the corpulent nobles whose belt broke regularly, the ones who repulsed him so much, he could easily help part them with their coins.
It would start often with him bumping into them, and then apologizing. He would then start a conversation. It varied between them, but often he would say there was a likeness, and that he was positive his father had mentioned a whatever this noble's last name was. He would link them together, imply old bonds, perhaps a life saved. He would say they looked particularly noble, smile and flatter them as he despised them behind too-big smiles.
And George and his friends would sneak about and lift his purse. Sometimes they'd be so entranced they wouldn't even realize they'd been robbed. Other times they'd notice, and Francis would remark about how the street urchins were so very horrid in this city and should not something be done about them?
Of course he had to be careful which quarter he took to. Too much and someone might get suspicious. As of yet, he had gone blameless and the boys had escaped each and every time, though whether that luck would hold out remained to be seen.
le loup et le lapin (13)
anonymous
September 8 2010, 11:25:03 UTC
It had been far too long since he'd slept with a boy. He'd had a few of the better looking whores - London women were not quite to his liking, like everything else from this accursed place. He did not know the streets in this sooty town, but a few discreet inquiries lead him down different streets.
The boy was blond and a bit thin, with a wry smile and a coy manner. He aped innocence, but with such a coquettish edge that only a complete dullard would miss its falsity. He was dressed better than the street urchins, with the styles of the day: white shirt and breeches, and the marks left by the last patron on his neck, as telling as a brand. Neither bothered with names as he pressed the coin into the boy's fingers. The boy licked the coin and stuck it in a pocket hidden in his shirt.
His eyes were blue, not violet, and his hair not the color of honey, of ripened fields of wheat, but he would do for the night.
They went through the halls, amidst laughter of drunken men and whores, the sounds of l'amour in beds, against walls and every other surface in this house of ill repute.
The boy started to undress without another word.
He came closer and caught the scent of rosewater to hide the scent of every other person he'd bedded that day. He wasn't bulky enough, yet his hair was soft, and when he touched it, he could almost imagine another form there with him.
"Matthieu," he breathed aloud.
"'Matthieu'?" The boy said.
"It's the person I love," Francis said, realizing it to be true as he said it.
The looked at him, a sideways glance, both enterprising and sly. This boy was everything he'd tried to avoid in an errand boy.
"You'll have to pay me another coin to pretend to be someone else," he said.
For a moment they were just two shrewd businessmen looking down a deal. Francis probably could've talked it down, but in his opinion, whores weren't to be bargained with. They might use teeth when teeth should never be used.
He pulled out another coin and put it in the boy's hand.
le loup et le lapin (14)
anonymous
September 8 2010, 11:32:06 UTC
Matthieu came regularly now. With his new work, Francis was hardly wealthy, but he no longer worried about joining the street urchins. He had enough to keep his room and board, with some extras. He could afford enough for a bit of wine and gambling to keep things interesting, and books as presents to Matthieu, and incentive to bring him back for reading. Without the constant threat of living with the street urchins, Francis calmed down and lost the tension which had lodged itself deep inside.
He was able to more fully enjoy his time with Matthieu.
That day Matthieu had been oddly shy, as if he was working his way up to ask something important. Francis wondered if it was a confession, and if so, what could he confess other than love? He waited quietly, waiting for the words as Matthieu fumbled.
"Ah....if I may, I must ask..." Matthieu said.
"Anything," Francis said. "Anything you ask I will try and give you. Whatever you wish will be yours," Francis said.
Matthieu blushed. "It's not that... Just- Your errand boy...may I teach him?"
"I don't think he'd find how to use a napkin or how to sit at a royal gathering helpful," Francis drawled. He felt a bit disappointed, but brushed it aside. that confession would come one day. he was sure of it.
"No...reading," Matthieu said. "While we were walking here, George mentioned that he'd never learned. Of course...I suppose it's not surprising, but it seems such a shame..."
"I'm not sure it would avail him much either, but if you feel it is best," Francis replied.
Matthieu lit up with a smile. "Thank you."
He could never resist a smile like that, Francis thought. Matthieu could ask him to kill someone dead, and if he his sad eyes so pleading, if there was a promise of a smile, Francis could only comply.
le loup et le lapin (15)
anonymous
September 8 2010, 11:36:57 UTC
It was English reading he was teaching the boy and not French, which Francis disapproved of on principle. However, the thought of how George would butcher his poor native language made him think that perhaps Matthieu was right in this.
Francis contented himself to watch as day by day Matthieu would set out the works which he procured, easy books and chalky stones to draw numbers and letters upon the floor. They'd be swept away by the maid before the day was over, but it'd linger there, those little lessons and Francis would look down, and smile in fond nostalgia. Matthieu looked happier than he had in a while, and Francis contented the stinging nettle of jealousy growing in him that he had a larger part than some street urchin.
Francis ensured however that those meetings were relatively short, as to not dig into the time they shared together. As it was, he already expected an angry drunk Englishmen to come in storming, accusing him of corrupting his ward.
The oddest thing was he hadn't. He'd had Matthieu who he desired very much in his room alone and hadn't even stolen a kiss. He thought Matthieu's goodness must have somehow rubbed off on him, like one rubs away the tarnish in silver.
But no, he thought. He couldn't abide with someone hurting Matthieu anymore than he already had been. Himself included.
Of course Matthieu filled his thoughts in very impure manners, lust-drenched, sweaty daydreams that he lapsed into often, but he had not touched him like he'd touched the whore.
He wondered if the English had any roses this time of the year. Certainly not as good as French roses, but a rose to the pillow.
He thought about sending George to do the job, but decided against it. George would likely sully the rose, twist its stem and crush its petals in his grimy hands. This was a job for himself to do, even if it was far more dangerous should Arthur catch sight of him sneaking around Matthieu's window. Other than that, he did not wish the attention to get mislaid, or George to take too much of Matthieu's heart. He knew the boy loved Matthieu, but he couldn't tell if it was like an older brother or a lover, and did not wish to sprout the feelings, and have George become a wedge between them.
Perhaps a poem too...though he'd have to hunt down some suitable French poetry. His view of English verse was like all things English, distinctly lacking. He and Arthur fought incessantly on such matters when they were talking at all. Some of their bitterest fights had been over Shakespeare.
It dawned on him that Matthieu was different. He was thinking of courting him, rather than simply deflowering him, having a quick affair and finding the next young thing to bed. Was he a changed man? No, it seemed only in response to Matthieu, for he'd seen three lovely ladies this morning and two tall and fine boys and thought about bedding them all with no such gestures.
Matthieu was simply different.
Rather than be horrified at the prospect, he lolled his head to the side and dreamily thought of l'amour, as giddy as a girl on her first season out.
*
He never left his name, but then he did not have to. Matthieu would know, and too would Arthur should he find such tokens. There were weaknesses in every household, and through George he found them out. Arthur had not, in fact, made any move towards the maid, and her paramour was from his sector of town. If Francis ferried lover's notes, and other assorted things, she would turn a blind eye should he come near and swear up and down to Arthur that no one had called.
Matthieu was slowly opening up under this attention. He was a little less skittish, a little more open. His cheeks were as bright as the flowers he received, and had their genders been reversed, and Arthur not been so opposed, this romance would have almost been legitimate.
Then again, the most interesting form of l'amour was the forbidden kind.
le loup et le lapin (16)
anonymous
September 8 2010, 11:39:11 UTC
Francis was so caught up in his life, his love that he had almost forgot why he had come here in the first place. All that came crashing back one morning, three months after he had landed. He had been penning a love letter, his pocket full from a nice swindle when a rap at the door distracted him.
"There iz someone to see ya, sir," George said. "Says he iz a friend of yers."
Francis looked up, pleased and expecting another visit from Matthieu, instead to find a fragment of his past standing right there. Hubert Durand, one of the revolutionaries he had drunk with. He was a short man with stooped shoulders and an expression which revealed every expression, of which sullenness usually prevailed. His nose was very flat, except for a crooked juncture between his eyes from where it had been broken once. He kept a scraggly beard to hide a weak chin, and had hair which only shades of earth in its most humble tones could describe. Mud, if Francis was feeling charitable; merde if he was not.
For a moment, he paled, his face paling. He shook this off.
"I'm sorry, my friend, you surprised me. But, Hubert! It's been a while. You left to take care of your family before the worst of it set in."
"And I see you left too, despite your devotion to the cause," Hubert said, a trace of coldness, of scorn in his voice. Hubert never was one for keeping his emotions in check.
"What can I say? I like living, even if it's in a soot-riddled cesspool like London," Francis said flippantly.
"Or your lover," Hubert said.
For a tense moment they eyed each other. Francis forced a smile. "Which one? Really, you must be more specific! I always have at least seven, one for each day of the week. Otherwise it gets so very tedious."
"I see you haven't changed at all," Hubert said.
"You either, my friend," Francis said cheerily. He kept a bright smile plastered on. Hubert was too dull to see how it didn't quite reach his eyes.
Hubert was still a clod, Francis thought. Still too-obvious with his ploys, and possibly on Dupont's side with how chilly he was being to him. With the way he was acting, you'd think Francis would've slept with his wife - which he hadn't, she'd been not nearly pretty enough, and Hubert was more an avoidable annoyance, so sleeping with his plain wife would avail him nothing.
They'd ordered drinks together. Had Francis been a richer man, he would have ordered drink after drink to bring forth the old adage: in vino veritas: In wine there is truth.
"I think you'll be glad to know that Dupont is dead," Hubert said.
Francis shrugged. "I cannot say that I am too distraught over this, but one reaps what they sow."
Hubert was not the most subtle of them. His hand had been opening and closing at his thigh, seeming to be stroking something He would not put it past Hubert for a public case of onanism, but what he truly suspected was that there was something hidden there. A knife, he thought. One to slit his throat.
Between them, many drinks were ordered, but Francis took sips and did not swallow, and only spit it back into his mug on the sly. It wasn't as if it were fine wine to be savored. This weak ale hardly compare to the wines he had enjoyed in Paris.
All the while, Francis made a show of flirting with the whores, to keep Hubert calm. He acted the part of the charming drunk,
"I think I shall have to visit madame chamber pot," Francis slurred, then laughed at his own joke as if he had invented comedy itself. He swayed a bit as he got up, and noted that Hubert stayed a few beats.
Instead of going back to his room, he went outside.
The air was cool, faintly damp from the earlier rain. Francis' mind was clear, and he kept himself focused. He couldn't return after this. If he found George, he could get him to collect things and inform the mistress that he would not be returning.
le loup et le lapin (17)
anonymous
September 8 2010, 11:43:54 UTC
He heard the footsteps behind him, but pretended he didn't, even whistling like a drunkard and wobbling a little for effect.
"A far better man than you died," Hubert said. There was a sound of unsheathing, and Francis kept up the act. He pretended to almost stumble, and pulled a knife from his boot. He felt the knife embed in his shoulder - no one could accuse Hubert of having a good aim - and he rose up despite the pain with the knife and slashed. Scarlet over his clothes, the wall and ground. Hubert's eyes were wide as he breathed his last. A surprise someone hadn't slit his throat earlier. If Dupont hadn't kept him alive, they surely would have.
"You were always a fool, Hubert," Francis said.
Hubert collapsed before him, his final gasps and curses obscured. Red oozed out of him and pooled on the pavement. He stepped over the body and dabbed at his shirt. He'd liked that shirt, you just didn't get this quality over here.
He looked down, dispassionate at his mortal sin. Even God would understand, no? His children certainly had done a lot of killing, but then Francis was, as he always was, a sinner.
Perhaps he could hire someone to dispose of it. The street urchins would do about anything if you paid them enough. There was always the chance they'd blackmail him, but what reputation did he have to protect? Not George, even if he trusted him, for he had other things for him to do.
No, he would have to deal with this himself. The bridge across the Thames was not that far, and the night was foggy. Finding a way to obscure it was the hardest part. He was able to find some abandoned sacks - and the reason for their abandonment was obvious when he picked them up. They stank of cat piss, and mold. But they would do.
Before he left, he made the sound of a night bird's call - that was their sign when they worked together. It took three series of calls before George heard him over the crowd and came.
"Mister Bonnifoi!" He gasped.
"Hush," Francis said. "Now listen to me. The man that came today was no friend, and I barely escaped with my life. I need you to collect my things, get a doctor and meet me at the Thames. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir!" George said. He ran off, and Francis began the heavy task of Hubert's burial despite the blinding pain shooting through him.
le loup et le lapin (18)
anonymous
September 8 2010, 11:47:20 UTC
Dieu me pardonne car j'ai péché: God forgive me. -
The final splash of Hubert's burial marked a beginning and an end. Perhaps the members of the boardinghouse would think he was the one who had been slain. His ego protested, but his common sense said otherwise.
"A nice night for disposing of a body, non?"
Francis turned to see through the mist a figure he knew all too well. Another ghost of the past had come, for surely a dullard like Hubert wouldn't work alone. Beaumont smiled in a wolfish way. Unlike Hubert, Beaumont was no fool. He was one Francis had hoped to never have on his bad side.
"Hello old friend," Beaumont said. He put emphasis on friend in a mocking manner. They both knew he was no friend of Francis'.
In the light his blond hair had a silvery tinge. His brows were thicker than fashion allowed, but not quite to Arthur's excess. Beaumont always had the look of a fox about him, in the sharp angles of his face, the severe cheekbones and chin, and how he always seemed to look smug, no matter what the occasion. He'd heard rumors that Beaumont had gone far and beyond the patriotism of most when it came to slaughtering nobles. He'd heard often he didn't even wait
But what was one to say about rumors? He'd spread a few rumors about his sexual prowess and who he had slept with just to make things interesting before. Who was to say that Beaumont had not done the same to give him a terrifying reputation? Francis had always found him somehow unsettling, and had avoided his company whenever possible.
"A vagrant. I was taking care of things," Francis said. "It's good pay."
"Don't lie, Francis. We both know Hubert finally met his end like the fool he was."
Francis looked for a clever remark, but it was then that the light shifted enough to see the pistol.
"Ah, yes. I see you can now see your end. I'm obliged to kill you, given you are a traitor and just killed Hubert, you see. I can't say I'm regretful, however. I've been waiting to take out your conceited, self-serving, noble-blooded carcass for a long time."
"I see you did join your lover after all," Beaumont said. "It was very kind of you to lead us right to him - your attempts at hiding are quite pathetic, but then, you always were too vain to stay in the shadows."
"Your information is erroneous, as always," Francis said.
"Does it matter? People don't escape me, Francis. Think of it as an act of mercy. You'll soon be reunited with him in hell."
"I'm sure I will be seeing you soon enough too, Beaumont," Francis said.
"I'm surprised you didn't kill the boy yourself, given how you feel about nobles. How typical for you to take one as your little whore."
His hands flexed. Perhaps he could throw the knife just far enough to make Beaumont injured too before he died. He would not die pleading and sniveling, but spitting on his assailant. He preferred life, preferred Matthieu's smiles and gentleness; roses and fashions; wit and love and breath and life. These were the thoughts that assailed him: the kisses and love he never would have; the old days when his troupe was if not honorable, then at least interesting and truly believing in their cause, before men like Dupont, Hubert, Beaumont and Robespierre. Fights with Arthur he'd never have, years given freely to Matthieu as they slowly came together, with unhurried touches and kisses and finally their bodies meeting.
Everything he would never have.
Oh, the Bible said one must hate life, hate the world, but he loved it with a passion so much that it made him ache. He stared Beaumont down, grim, and did not allow himself the tears and hysterics of some of the nobles he had watched die, but of those who had gone to their death proudly, without a tear, never bowing their will to their captors until the last.
There came a still, soft voice cutting the dark. "Dieu me pardonne car j'ai péché...."
le loup et le lapin (19)
anonymous
September 8 2010, 11:54:18 UTC
The pistol shot out as Beaumont fell, a knife in his back - how ironic, indeed. Je suis désolé: I'm sorry calme-toi: calm down, basically. -
In the last agony, the pistol had been thrust upwards, and instead of a fatal blow, it sank into Francis' already injured arm. He flinched in pain, trying to cradle his arm against a new searing pain.
He'd taken musket balls and pistol shells before, giving him some of his more notable scars. However, it was never the sort of pain one got used to.
"Oh...Dieu me pardonne car j'ai péché...." the voice repeated.
In his falling, Matthieu was revealed behind him, holding a serrated knife, his face very pale. He looked down, as if he could not quite comprehend what had happened, what he had done.
"He....he was going to....I...."
"Matthieu..." Francis said.
"You're hurt..." Matthieu said. He shook himself free of his momentary paralysis, and stepped over Beaumont to reach Francis.
"I'll live," Francis said. He coughed, and tried to smile, but the pain was too great.
"Matthieu....what are you doing here?" Francis said. He clutched at his arm. The shirt had bled through. Of course, the one rule of the rogue: never wear white when killing a man.
His hands were grimy from disposing the body.
Matthieu took note of his shirt. His face grew ghastly white, and he began to tremble. He touched the dried blood, now turned a shade of brown as if he were in a witch's thrall.
"Matthieu, stop it. Don't touch it, you'll make it worse."
"Then it's true....?" Matthieu said.
"Don't worry about them; they won't trouble us anymore," Francis said.
"He was right...." Matthieu said. "I didn't want to believe him, but he must have been right...."
"Matthieu, what are you saying?" Francis said. His mind was fuzzy already from the sharp pain.
"You came here to kill me, didn't you?" Matthieu said. His voice was very low, and very calm. "To get revenge? To take me back to the guillotine? Was not that what you wanted?" The last sounded an accusation, and Matthieu began to step away.
Matthieu put the bloody knife he had used to gut Beaumont to his heart. His hands were trembling so much, that the blade shook in his grasp.
"Kill me, then. Stab me in the heart - it already feels like you have! I am already a damned man, as it is... But please...don't send me to that place. If I have to die, let it be by your hand...I don't want to go alone and slaughtered like cattle....."
"Matthieu, don't do it," Francis said. He limped forward, and Matthieu looked wary.
"I won't harm you," Francis said, soothingly, as if he were talking to a skittish animal. "Calme-toi."
Matthieu looked lost and confused, longing to trust him, and yet unsure if he could any longer.
"There's so much blood..." He said in a whisper. "So very much blood....and I have committed a mortal sin...I-"
Francis pulled the knife from him, and let it clatter onto the ground. The simple act, one he'd done more times than most, sent pain shooting down his arm. He flinched, and Matthieu's hands fluttered over him, worrying and yet not quite touching.
Francis stroked Matthieu with his dirty hands, wondering for the first time whether he had any right to do so.
"No, coeur. I didn't come here to kill you. I won't let them catch you," Francis said in a reassuring tone. He leaned against the wall, and both he and Matthieu together slowly crumpled to the cold cobblestones.
"You see....I was to be put on that chopping block myself, so I came here to clear my name. There was an accusation that I let the son of de Guilleaume, go on purpose, that I was an aristocrat supporter, a mole."
Matthieu's eyes widened.
"F-forgive me. Je suis désolé. I-I got confused, a man came to me said things and I thought-"
"It is all right. Calme-toi."
He put his uninjured arm about Matthieu, and pulled him to his chest.
le loup et le lapin (20)
anonymous
September 8 2010, 12:03:31 UTC
"I'm trying to be strong but I....I keep remembering. They killed us all. My mother thought I she and I might be safe, because I'm only a... a bastard child, but they hunted us down anyways. They took her...and I never saw her again. An aunt took me...I-I accidentally saw one of the executions before I left...there- there was so much blood...the streets were caked with it- and-and-"
"Shh, petit. You do not need to go on. I know; I've seen many executions."
No wonder he had been so affected by seeing that hanging, and now to be pushed this far by Beaumont, to have to stain his hands. He hoped Beaumont would enjoy the many tortures of hell, for anyone who did such a thing to Matthieu deserved no less.
"I miss everyone so much that it feels like my insides are slowly being scooped out until there's nothing....and yet I know I'll never see them again. Any of them. Were we really evil? Is this punishment from God? Did we deserve to be slaughtered like animals?"
For the first time Francis questioned his actions. He had sent his family members to die, for freedom. He knew firsthand that nobles were selfish, careless and completely self-involved. He knew they cared little for their people, who might as well be cattle for the way they lived, and yet...
What if he had sent Matthieu to the guillotine simply by merit of his birth?
Matthieu was an exception to the rule. He'd never met another noble who'd treat the lower people just as their own, who'd try and prepare everything himself to keep from being a burden, who would teach a little urchin how to read with never implying that he was anything but an equal. He was gentle and kind, he did not deserve such a fate. The thought of sending him to die such a gruesome death made him shudder inside.
"Listen, I'm not going to let any harm befall you . If anyone wants to take you back, they'll have to kill me first," Francis said. "I promise this; I stake my life on it."
He kissed Matthieu's bloody hands, and Matthieu looked down at him, welling up with emotions. He read happiness and sadness, weariness and tenderness all in that gaze.
"Paris is no place for either of us, anymore, it seems. I am not even sure if England is safe for us. This Hubert had every intention of slitting my throat today."
"I'm sorry for being selfish and weak...It seems I can't be any use to you again...."
"Again? What do you mean, petit?"
"It's not surprising that you don't remember me. Arthur and I are relations...I saw you that summer you and he..." Matthieu flushed.
"The summer I deflowered him, yes."
"I followed you around all that summer. You used to give me flowers and say I'd become beautiful and that you'd marry me when I grew older." Mattieu colored. "I saved them all and dried them in books and waited for you to return....When I left I had to leave everything behind but the clothes on my back. I couldn't even bring the bear you gave me."
"You know, I do remember that, but I didn't connect him with you - you'd certainly grown too much."
"I am surprised you remember even that... I never quite got over you. I kept trying to find you...it was my fault you were found out and why they thought I was your lover. My...stupid childish infatuation that nearly got you killed."
le loup et le lapin (21)
anonymous
September 8 2010, 12:06:59 UTC
"Perhaps it is for the best. With this regime, they'd likely have taken me to the guillotine for having too much enthusiasm. The revolution has become something far different than what it started as. I fear that soon those that sent the nobles to the guillotine will too find their heads on the chopping block," Francis said.
"I-I'm so relieved you weren't executed with them. You're the only person I feel happy around and it's always been like that... I was alone for so long and then you came and made me so many promises...I clung to them all because they were all I had." Matthieu choked back a sob and continued.
"Losing everyone was so hard I...I.. The only way I could even survive it was thinking that one day I would find you again."
"Matthieu...We're a pair of bastards together, coeur," Francis said. "Nobody wants us."
Matthieu nodded, trying to smile for him. "I-I want you..." He breathed.
"And I want you," Francis said. They touched bloody hand to grimy hand and held onto each other. Matthieu smiled, and it was as if the fog had receded and the sun had come out from behind the clouds and pushed back the damp, cold dark.
"You're even more lovely when you smile, coeur...."
This won him another smile.
They lay together. Matthieu's fingers were stroking Francis' hair, and he was nuzzled up against his neck.
"I promise I won't leave you, mon amour."
"Really? You mean it, and you're not just being charming?" Matthieu said. He looked like he didn't dare to trust, even as much as he longed to.
"I solemnly promise on the firmament of heaven," Francis said.
"Do not be blasphemous, I already have to pray for your soul enough," Matthieu said.
Matthieu broke from his grip, and ripped at his shirt. His shirt too was ruined, stained with blood and dirt from Francis, but his sleeve had remained relatively clean. He spread apart the remains of Francis' sleeves, and wrapped it in the bandage.
"I am sorry for being weak. I should have done this immediately."
He rose up and offered his hand. Francis took it, and despite being slick with blood, he did not slip and they came up together.
"There must be a physician nearby, surely."
"George was to get them. I'm afraid Beaumont wasn't alone and might have kept him from reaching us."
"Lean upon me," Matthieu said.
"Coeur, it's my arm that's hurt, not my leg," Francis protested.
"You're injured and weak," Matthieu said.
"As you wish," Francis said, faintly amused. As they walked, Francis allowed himself to lean on Matthieu. It didn't lessen the pain, but he found pleasure in the closeness.
le loup et le lapin (22)
anonymous
September 8 2010, 12:10:23 UTC
"Matthieu...let's run away together," Francis said.
"An elopement? How scandalous," Matthieu said, though he sounded even a bit wry.
"Scandal follows me everywhere I go, like a lover. I say life isn't worth living without some truly good scandals, and if I have to make them myself, well...." Francis said.
"You're shameful," Matthieu said, but he said it with fond admonition.
"Yes, I truly am. It is one of my better qualities," Francis said.
Step by step they came closer. They passed drunks, huddled urchins, but did not even dare to look at them. An injured man was no oddity in this part of town. They were dirty enough that the cutpurses would probably stay away, even if they looked like easy prey.
"Where will we go to?" Francis mused. "The new world?"
"Arthur is still very angry at the colonies for their independence. He'd say going around that lot would teach me bad manners," Matthieu said.
"Well it is not the only one. The Canadian colony used to be French. You would be able to keep your language and your religion."
"It's cold there though, isn't it? It's probably not to your liking..."
"Then you will have to warm me up, then won't you?"
Matthieu blushed, but it was only a faint tinge of rose instead of his usual reactions.
"Have I corrupted you this much, mon lapin? That the thought of being in my bed doesn't make you need salts?"
"Give me a little longer, then I'll b-be properly corrupted," Matthieu said.
Francis laughed. "You are too much, Matthieu."
"When we get there...Please leave the talking to me. .I will explain it all," Matthieu said.
"I don't want you on the receiving end of his rage," Francis said.
"I know you think I am weak...and I am, but I am trying to grow stronger. Please let me be strong for you...I don't want to see Arthur hurting you."
Francis laughed. "Arthur isn't a monster, chéri."
Matthieu's cheeks puffed out in frustration. "W-well even if it isn't that, he might snap and hurt you and I don't want you bruised...."
"I could bruise him back," Francis said. "An eye for an eye."
"I-I don't want you near him," Matthieu burst out. "You're close and you've got history together and- and-"
This only made Francis laugh more. "Coeur, have I made you jealous? Arthur and I can barely stay in the same room with each other without fighting. Yes, these battles are fun for a time but doing that every day would make it tedious. You on the other hand, calm me and make me strive to be a better man," Francis said. He nuzzled against Matthieu's shoulder.
"We are almost there," Matthieu said. "Please be strong for me a little longer."
His cheeks were rosy, and not merely from the cold of the night. Francis wished for a bit of wine to dull the pain, and said a little prayer that George had not been intercepted. He and God were not on the best of terms, for he had not said his rosary in a very long time, and only celebrated the feast days for the sake of more sinning, but supposedly God was supposed to be merciful. Surely he'd be able to listen to a sinner's prayer as well as a saint's.
le loup et le lapin (23)
anonymous
September 8 2010, 12:16:07 UTC
*
The physician they found was in the quarter and used to such late-night wounds, and most of all, a few extra coins pressed to his palm and he would keep his silence. Matthieu held to his hands as the physician worked whatever white magic physicians were capable of. He held like the sheer act of clinging to him would wrest him from death's grip.
"I'll live, Matthieu."
"If you do not...I am not sure what I would do," Matthieu said softly. He pushed up his lunettes, leaving a smear of dirt on the rim, and the top of the glass. When he tried to clean them, he found his shirt covered in blood and grime.
"You know, I could never die without knowing how you found me.
"I...I was going to visit you.I met George in your rooms and he told me what happened....I couldn't allow that, so I went," Matthieu said.
"This late at night? Alone? Matthieu what were you thinking?" Francis admonished.
"Francis said he had a very bad feeling about today, that someone would die. I couldn't get it out of my mind, and I had to see you... "
"For that I am glad, otherwise I probably would be dead now," Francis said. "I owe you my life now, petit."
"Then you can repay me by surviving the night," Matthieu said.
"I'll live," Francis said again. "How could I ever forgive myself if I made you cry?"
Matthieu began to count down holy names: Saint's, the Blessed Mother, God and Jesus, his fingers moving over Francis' fingers as if they were holding a rosary.
Francis thought he had never loved him more, but he had thought that five minutes ago. Each new moment he thought this, adding to the adoration which he knew would only grow as the days progressed.
le loup et le lapin (24)
anonymous
September 8 2010, 12:25:46 UTC
Arthur was pacing when they came. He stank of drink, and had worked himself into a fine furore when they came to the door, dirty, bloodstained, and leaning on each other like a pain of drunkards.
"Matthew! What the-"
"Francis saved me from a marauder..." Matthieu said slowly. "He tried to stab me, and Francis took the blow for me."
Arthur narrowed his eyes and lifted Matthieu's chin to check every bruise to try and tell if it had been made by violence or love. Francis, as if he had put Matthieu up to this. And yet, Matthieu stayed strong. Francis was proud of him. He kept up the facade, with just enough tremors and meekness to be believable. The boy was far more enterprising than he'd first thought.
But he was not so good an actor as to hide what had transpired between them. As it was said amor tussisque non celantur: love and a cough cannot be hid.
"I-I don't believe we will be safe here anymore," Matthieu said. Surely he had meant I but the we slipped out, for indeed they already thought of each other as entwined as a wife and husband. No vows had been spoken, and yet the thought until death do us part was already ingrained in their minds.
"We? Matthew, there is no we with Francis," Arthur said, his voice cold. "He uses people and then tosses them aside."
"I have been most grateful for your help, but I cannot simply remain your ward forever. I cannot pick up the pieces when the constant fear of being found lies over my head. Today's attack has only made those fears realized."
"You could go up to Scotland for a while. They'll never find you there," Arthur said.
"I have to become more than someone's child, someone's ward," Matthieu said in a gentle, yet firm manner. "I am ever thankful for your kindness, but I must rely on myself or I will continue to be this useless fragile boy who is good for nothing but reading and piano playing," Matthieu said.
"Don't say such things about yourself," Francis murmured. "You've never been useless in you life."
"But I was not strong..."
"There is more to life than strength," Francis said.
Matthieu accepted this argument. Throughout this, Arthur grew silent. For a moment, Francis thought he would shout of Matthieu's ungrateful nature, and he tensed to defend Matthieu, for he'd experienced enough tumult for two lifetimes, but he kept silent. He did not look pleased, and the glance he gave Francis was venomous. Still, he did not lash out at Matthieu.
"All right," Arthur said. "If you want your freedom, I'll give you it. There's no fortune to give you any longer, but I will provide enough for your travels on the condition you keep it tight and don't let Francis gamble it or drink it to nothing."
"Honestly, Arthur, you make me out to be some monster," Francis said.
"You're the monster that's stealing my ward away," Arthur said tetchily.
"And the monster who stole your virginity away, don't forget that," Francis said.
Arthur let out a growl of frustration and stormed out, apparently desiring, yet unwilling to choke his ward's lover in front of him.
Matthieu shook his head. "You just had to mention it, didn't you?"
"I have to make every moment count," Francis said. Matthieu was not placated, and still looked a discontented, so he kissed his cheek.
"We are old enemies, nothing more. Truth be told I think without the drink, we might not have gone any farther than punching each other," Francis said.
"Really, I could hardly tell with the way you're shamelessly charming him," Matthieu said tetchily.
He kissed Matthieu's cheek again. "You're the one I chose. It's inevitable that I charm people as I go on, but it will go no farther than a few idle flirtations."
Matthieu seemed to accept this answer.
"I will be back soon," Francis said.
"Scouting for more?" Matthieu asked.
"No, merely a moment outside," Francis said.
He went outside to smoke his pipe, because at this point he thought Arthur might try and shove it down his throat. Within a few minutes, Matthieu joined him.
Morning itself was already near. There was a belt of light rising on the skies, and muffling out the stars.
"Perhaps you should go see Arthur, since you are so very close?" Matthieu said curtly.
Little Matthieu turning jealous and petty, who'd have thought? Francis was glad to see he had a little spark in him after all.
"I'm going to be leaving now, I'm sure Arthur has tired of my presence by now," Francis said. "I just wanted to make sure you hadn't gone out angry and were walking the streets of London alone."
"You're leaving?" Matthieu said, sounding like a very small child.
"Yes, I think I've seen enough of Arthur for the next ten years. We can never spend much time together without battling, you see? I could go for a little more sparring, but it seems to distress you, so..."
"Please don't leave," Matthieu said suddenly. "Is it my fault? I am sorry for getting angry and saying things. I'll just keep quiet next time-"
"No, I deserved that, and in truth, I'm glad to see such a side to you."
"But you'll return, right?" Mathieu said.
"Probably not, mon petit. Arthur and I can only stand so much of each other. The bad fights haven't even started yet."
Matthieu reached out and took ahold of his sleeve. He did not say anything, but steadily held onto him, which said much more than words could. He leaned forward to kiss Matthieu's forehead, and brushed aside that stray curl.
"We will meet again someday, petit," Francis said. He gathers the hat and coat left at Matthieu's bedside, a time which seems not hours, but days before, and leaves out the door without another word.
*
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Francis drifted for the next few days. He knew his money was dwindling, but he felt remarkably listless. Exiled from his home, in a smokey, boring place such as London without the wonders and artistic nature of his beloved Paris, he was in poor spirits. Meeting with Anglerre - and Matthieu - had lifted his spirits momentarily, but it didn't distract him from the fact that in a few weeks he wouldn't have a coin to his name and would be kicked to join the street urchins.
Maybe he could charm his way into a wealthy heiress' heart....or simply her bed. He could not see himself a menial worker here, and neither his revolutionary nor ties to nobility, despised as it was, would do any good. Arthur didn't look like he'd be doing anything to help, except perhaps to give him enough rope to hang himself with.
Visiting Matthieu on the sly seemed unlikely. Arthur had a keenness so deep Francis sometimes suspected him of witchery. Matthieu and teasing Arthur had been the only bright spots in his exile thus far, and teasing Arthur only went so far before it got tedious and tiresome.
One thing was sure, however: his coins were slowly dwindling, and he had to find a way to increase them, whether it be to beg, gamble, steal or borrow.
He decided on a walk. On the way, he studied the street urchins for possibilities. He had set his mind that he would choose a child to be his accomplice. He thought children more trustworthy, being less likely to backstab, for their empty stomachs kept them focused on the next meal.
He picked out one of the cleaner looking urchins and gave him a coin, implied that there would be more where that came from if he stayed true, and then he had an errand boy.
The boy's name was George, and his Northern accent was terribly thick. His had reddish-brown hair, a face almost devoured by freckles, and the same stilted, grimy and scrawny body covered by ratty clothes that all street urchins who had been there a very long time possessed.
He looked clever enough, and yet lacked that enterprising gleam, that falseness that some of the more devious contained. Francis knew it well, having seen that very expression on his own face before; he could find a liar in a second, having superior experience in the trade.
*
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George proved worth the coins he had been given quickly. He'd do his job quickly, hungrily looking for more coins. He'd all but camp out at the door of Francis' room, stopping anyone who didn't meet the inspection of "Mister Bonnifoi"
On the first week since he'd landed and met Arthur and Matthieu, he had risen late, a little hungover, and desultory. There certainly was work in London, it just happened to be dirty, smelly and altogether tedious. The thought of splitting his soft hands carrying crates made his nose turn in disgust.
He was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. He hadn't even heard the knock.
"There iz someone to see ya, sir."
"Thank you, George," Francis said.
Matthieu stepped forward until he stood in the doorway. He was flushed, a mix of the walk there and embarrassment, Francis thought.
"Mon petit, to what do I owe this surprise?"
"I...I just wanted to see you again," Matthieu said. "When you left, Master Kirkland was so angry...he's been in an angry drunken stupor the whole time."
"Ahh...you need not worry, for that is how we are. We fight like cats and dogs whenever we are around each other."
"I can see that..." Matthieu said with a wan smile.
He had a book under one arm, and Francis tilted his head to try and read the title.
"Did you come to read to me, cher?" Francis said, amused.
"No...I came for no reason, just to see you again," Matthieu said.
"Then you just happened to bring a book along with you? It must have been a long walk, carrying that."
"Ah, this. I purchased it while I was out. It was my excuse," Matthieu said.
"You shouldn't walk alone these kinds of streets. They're full of wicked people, you know? I stay around here for it is cheaper and the company is interesting, but they might take advantage of someone like you," Francis said.
Matthieu looked down, abashed. "I am sorry. I cannot tell neighborhoods very well."
Francis lifted his chin. "Do not apologize; your innocence is charming."
"I haven't been in London long...it all seems the same to me," Matthieu said.
"Dirty and smokey? Lacking in anything nearing culture? Nothing compared the our beloved City of Lights?"
"I lived in the country," Matthieu said. "It was very isolated."
"Ahhh, a shame. You saw the City of Lights before you left for this cesspool, I hope?"
"Yes....I saw it," Matthieu said solemnly.
"You never forget Paris once you have witnessed its beauty," Francis said, his voice turning warm with fond nostalgia.
"I will surely never forget it," Matthieu said, but his voice still sounded grave.
"You don't have to stay away, however. I have a boy who watches out for things. If you give him something, he will likely walk you home, and they won't attack you seeing one of their own. If you have no coins, some food will also suffice," Francis said. "I'll notify him. He's fairly trustworthy if you're paying him well."
"Now, let us see this volume... Voltaire? You wish me to read you Candide?"
"It was the first I was able to buy here," Matthieu said. "I left behind many books when I traveled here."
"And what a loss it must have been. Hmmm, a satirical novel...and here I was thinking you'd bring me some wicked book of romance with fallen women and-"
Matthieu blushed so hard that Francis broke off into chuckling.
"Rest, for surely you've walked a long ways. My accommodations are humble, but I hope they will suffice," Francis said.
"I do not mind," Matthieu said.
Matthieu laid down on the bed, and Francis pulled the chair until he was beside the bedside. He read it, graceful and proud, his voice quite good in tone for proclamations and readings and theatre. He'd been a favorite in the courts, something of a plaything for his looks, and half noble status. To them, he might have well have been a pet, half-animal and half-human to be ordered at will.
Matthieu watched him in an adoring way. Just the presence of him was a balm to soothe the thoughts of his past. Reading to him was also calming. He could get into a rhythm, and knowing that Matthieu was here, his mind wouldn't be wandering while he was drinking, gambling or flirting to Matthieu. His heath, his safety, his whereabouts, this close, Francis could answer every question.
*
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He'd killed men before. With knives to the throat over a gambling debt, or lead them to the guillotine which in itself, was as good as drawing the blade across their throats himself. He wouldn't hesitate in a moment. To make his point, he draped his arm over Matthieu's shoulder's and leaned to whisper something in his ear. He was rewarded with a lovely rosy blush from Matthieu, and a sharp pointed look back towards the possible usurpers got his meaning across.
Seeing Matthieu lifted his spirits enough to inquire of the lady of the house as to whether he might be of assistance. She smiled back with an enigmatic expression and said she would let him know if he was needed. Should that fail, he could try his luck with gambling, and perhaps even offering his body to the richer women? He'd been whoring himself to nobles for a long time, and knew how to lie to them just enough to swindle and steal before he sent them off to the guillotine.
*
As it was, it was George who got him a job.
"Mistriss said you were needin' a job," George said. He took a quick look behind him, which alerted Francis that it would an interesting proposal indeed.
"It would depend on the kind of work you were offering," Francis said. "My constitution is too delicate for things like dockwork and menial labor."
"No, it's nothin' like that....just you look like a gentleman and all. People won't suspect ya of things."
"And what kind of things would this entail?" Francis asked.
"Ya wouldn't have to do the thievin'. Just the distractin'. Mistriss said you were a good talker, all charming like. Said you could talk the gold right off a laidy."
Francis smiled. His hands wouldn't be sullied, and he would get the benefits of pay simply by being charming. This was work he could live with.
"I think we have a deal," Francis said.
*
They started by finding a target. As much as he liked charming pretty women or men, he couldn't quite bring himself to rob them. So it was that he focused on the corpulent nobles whose belt broke regularly, the ones who repulsed him so much, he could easily help part them with their coins.
It would start often with him bumping into them, and then apologizing. He would then start a conversation. It varied between them, but often he would say there was a likeness, and that he was positive his father had mentioned a whatever this noble's last name was. He would link them together, imply old bonds, perhaps a life saved. He would say they looked particularly noble, smile and flatter them as he despised them behind too-big smiles.
And George and his friends would sneak about and lift his purse. Sometimes they'd be so entranced they wouldn't even realize they'd been robbed. Other times they'd notice, and Francis would remark about how the street urchins were so very horrid in this city and should not something be done about them?
Of course he had to be careful which quarter he took to. Too much and someone might get suspicious. As of yet, he had gone blameless and the boys had escaped each and every time, though whether that luck would hold out remained to be seen.
*
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The boy was blond and a bit thin, with a wry smile and a coy manner. He aped innocence, but with such a coquettish edge that only a complete dullard would miss its falsity. He was dressed better than the street urchins, with the styles of the day: white shirt and breeches, and the marks left by the last patron on his neck, as telling as a brand. Neither bothered with names as he pressed the coin into the boy's fingers. The boy licked the coin and stuck it in a pocket hidden in his shirt.
His eyes were blue, not violet, and his hair not the color of honey, of ripened fields of wheat, but he would do for the night.
They went through the halls, amidst laughter of drunken men and whores, the sounds of l'amour in beds, against walls and every other surface in this house of ill repute.
The boy started to undress without another word.
He came closer and caught the scent of rosewater to hide the scent of every other person he'd bedded that day. He wasn't bulky enough, yet his hair was soft, and when he touched it, he could almost imagine another form there with him.
"Matthieu," he breathed aloud.
"'Matthieu'?" The boy said.
"It's the person I love," Francis said, realizing it to be true as he said it.
The looked at him, a sideways glance, both enterprising and sly. This boy was everything he'd tried to avoid in an errand boy.
"You'll have to pay me another coin to pretend to be someone else," he said.
For a moment they were just two shrewd businessmen looking down a deal. Francis probably could've talked it down, but in his opinion, whores weren't to be bargained with. They might use teeth when teeth should never be used.
He pulled out another coin and put it in the boy's hand.
*
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He was able to more fully enjoy his time with Matthieu.
That day Matthieu had been oddly shy, as if he was working his way up to ask something important. Francis wondered if it was a confession, and if so, what could he confess other than love? He waited quietly, waiting for the words as Matthieu fumbled.
"Ah....if I may, I must ask..." Matthieu said.
"Anything," Francis said. "Anything you ask I will try and give you. Whatever you wish will be yours," Francis said.
Matthieu blushed. "It's not that... Just- Your errand boy...may I teach him?"
"I don't think he'd find how to use a napkin or how to sit at a royal gathering helpful," Francis drawled. He felt a bit disappointed, but brushed it aside. that confession would come one day. he was sure of it.
"No...reading," Matthieu said. "While we were walking here, George mentioned that he'd never learned. Of course...I suppose it's not surprising, but it seems such a shame..."
"I'm not sure it would avail him much either, but if you feel it is best," Francis replied.
Matthieu lit up with a smile. "Thank you."
He could never resist a smile like that, Francis thought. Matthieu could ask him to kill someone dead, and if he his sad eyes so pleading, if there was a promise of a smile, Francis could only comply.
He was always weak to pretty boys, after all.
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Francis contented himself to watch as day by day Matthieu would set out the works which he procured, easy books and chalky stones to draw numbers and letters upon the floor. They'd be swept away by the maid before the day was over, but it'd linger there, those little lessons and Francis would look down, and smile in fond nostalgia. Matthieu looked happier than he had in a while, and Francis contented the stinging nettle of jealousy growing in him that he had a larger part than some street urchin.
Francis ensured however that those meetings were relatively short, as to not dig into the time they shared together. As it was, he already expected an angry drunk Englishmen to come in storming, accusing him of corrupting his ward.
The oddest thing was he hadn't. He'd had Matthieu who he desired very much in his room alone and hadn't even stolen a kiss. He thought Matthieu's goodness must have somehow rubbed off on him, like one rubs away the tarnish in silver.
But no, he thought. He couldn't abide with someone hurting Matthieu anymore than he already had been. Himself included.
Of course Matthieu filled his thoughts in very impure manners, lust-drenched, sweaty daydreams that he lapsed into often, but he had not touched him like he'd touched the whore.
He wondered if the English had any roses this time of the year. Certainly not as good as French roses, but a rose to the pillow.
He thought about sending George to do the job, but decided against it. George would likely sully the rose, twist its stem and crush its petals in his grimy hands. This was a job for himself to do, even if it was far more dangerous should Arthur catch sight of him sneaking around Matthieu's window. Other than that, he did not wish the attention to get mislaid, or George to take too much of Matthieu's heart. He knew the boy loved Matthieu, but he couldn't tell if it was like an older brother or a lover, and did not wish to sprout the feelings, and have George become a wedge between them.
Perhaps a poem too...though he'd have to hunt down some suitable French poetry. His view of English verse was like all things English, distinctly lacking. He and Arthur fought incessantly on such matters when they were talking at all. Some of their bitterest fights had been over Shakespeare.
It dawned on him that Matthieu was different. He was thinking of courting him, rather than simply deflowering him, having a quick affair and finding the next young thing to bed. Was he a changed man? No, it seemed only in response to Matthieu, for he'd seen three lovely ladies this morning and two tall and fine boys and thought about bedding them all with no such gestures.
Matthieu was simply different.
Rather than be horrified at the prospect, he lolled his head to the side and dreamily thought of l'amour, as giddy as a girl on her first season out.
*
He never left his name, but then he did not have to. Matthieu would know, and too would Arthur should he find such tokens. There were weaknesses in every household, and through George he found them out. Arthur had not, in fact, made any move towards the maid, and her paramour was from his sector of town. If Francis ferried lover's notes, and other assorted things, she would turn a blind eye should he come near and swear up and down to Arthur that no one had called.
Matthieu was slowly opening up under this attention. He was a little less skittish, a little more open. His cheeks were as bright as the flowers he received, and had their genders been reversed, and Arthur not been so opposed, this romance would have almost been legitimate.
Then again, the most interesting form of l'amour was the forbidden kind.
*
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"There iz someone to see ya, sir," George said. "Says he iz a friend of yers."
Francis looked up, pleased and expecting another visit from Matthieu, instead to find a fragment of his past standing right there. Hubert Durand, one of the revolutionaries he had drunk with. He was a short man with stooped shoulders and an expression which revealed every expression, of which sullenness usually prevailed. His nose was very flat, except for a crooked juncture between his eyes from where it had been broken once. He kept a scraggly beard to hide a weak chin, and had hair which only shades of earth in its most humble tones could describe. Mud, if Francis was feeling charitable; merde if he was not.
For a moment, he paled, his face paling. He shook this off.
"I'm sorry, my friend, you surprised me. But, Hubert! It's been a while. You left to take care of your family before the worst of it set in."
"And I see you left too, despite your devotion to the cause," Hubert said, a trace of coldness, of scorn in his voice. Hubert never was one for keeping his emotions in check.
"What can I say? I like living, even if it's in a soot-riddled cesspool like London," Francis said flippantly.
"Or your lover," Hubert said.
For a tense moment they eyed each other. Francis forced a smile. "Which one? Really, you must be more specific! I always have at least seven, one for each day of the week. Otherwise it gets so very tedious."
"I see you haven't changed at all," Hubert said.
"You either, my friend," Francis said cheerily. He kept a bright smile plastered on. Hubert was too dull to see how it didn't quite reach his eyes.
Hubert was still a clod, Francis thought. Still too-obvious with his ploys, and possibly on Dupont's side with how chilly he was being to him. With the way he was acting, you'd think Francis would've slept with his wife - which he hadn't, she'd been not nearly pretty enough, and Hubert was more an avoidable annoyance, so sleeping with his plain wife would avail him nothing.
They'd ordered drinks together. Had Francis been a richer man, he would have ordered drink after drink to bring forth the old adage: in vino veritas: In wine there is truth.
"I think you'll be glad to know that Dupont is dead," Hubert said.
Francis shrugged. "I cannot say that I am too distraught over this, but one reaps what they sow."
Hubert was not the most subtle of them. His hand had been opening and closing at his thigh, seeming to be stroking something He would not put it past Hubert for a public case of onanism, but what he truly suspected was that there was something hidden there. A knife, he thought. One to slit his throat.
Between them, many drinks were ordered, but Francis took sips and did not swallow, and only spit it back into his mug on the sly. It wasn't as if it were fine wine to be savored. This weak ale hardly compare to the wines he had enjoyed in Paris.
All the while, Francis made a show of flirting with the whores, to keep Hubert calm. He acted the part of the charming drunk,
"I think I shall have to visit madame chamber pot," Francis slurred, then laughed at his own joke as if he had invented comedy itself. He swayed a bit as he got up, and noted that Hubert stayed a few beats.
Instead of going back to his room, he went outside.
The air was cool, faintly damp from the earlier rain. Francis' mind was clear, and he kept himself focused. He couldn't return after this. If he found George, he could get him to collect things and inform the mistress that he would not be returning.
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"A far better man than you died," Hubert said. There was a sound of unsheathing, and Francis kept up the act. He pretended to almost stumble, and pulled a knife from his boot. He felt the knife embed in his shoulder - no one could accuse Hubert of having a good aim - and he rose up despite the pain with the knife and slashed. Scarlet over his clothes, the wall and ground. Hubert's eyes were wide as he breathed his last. A surprise someone hadn't slit his throat earlier. If Dupont hadn't kept him alive, they surely would have.
"You were always a fool, Hubert," Francis said.
Hubert collapsed before him, his final gasps and curses obscured. Red oozed out of him and pooled on the pavement. He stepped over the body and dabbed at his shirt. He'd liked that shirt, you just didn't get this quality over here.
He looked down, dispassionate at his mortal sin. Even God would understand, no? His children certainly had done a lot of killing, but then Francis was, as he always was, a sinner.
Perhaps he could hire someone to dispose of it. The street urchins would do about anything if you paid them enough. There was always the chance they'd blackmail him, but what reputation did he have to protect? Not George, even if he trusted him, for he had other things for him to do.
No, he would have to deal with this himself. The bridge across the Thames was not that far, and the night was foggy. Finding a way to obscure it was the hardest part. He was able to find some abandoned sacks - and the reason for their abandonment was obvious when he picked them up. They stank of cat piss, and mold. But they would do.
Before he left, he made the sound of a night bird's call - that was their sign when they worked together. It took three series of calls before George heard him over the crowd and came.
"Mister Bonnifoi!" He gasped.
"Hush," Francis said. "Now listen to me. The man that came today was no friend, and I barely escaped with my life. I need you to collect my things, get a doctor and meet me at the Thames. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir!" George said. He ran off, and Francis began the heavy task of Hubert's burial despite the blinding pain shooting through him.
*
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-
The final splash of Hubert's burial marked a beginning and an end. Perhaps the members of the boardinghouse would think he was the one who had been slain. His ego protested, but his common sense said otherwise.
"A nice night for disposing of a body, non?"
Francis turned to see through the mist a figure he knew all too well. Another ghost of the past had come, for surely a dullard like Hubert wouldn't work alone. Beaumont smiled in a wolfish way. Unlike Hubert, Beaumont was no fool. He was one Francis had hoped to never have on his bad side.
"Hello old friend," Beaumont said. He put emphasis on friend in a mocking manner. They both knew he was no friend of Francis'.
In the light his blond hair had a silvery tinge. His brows were thicker than fashion allowed, but not quite to Arthur's excess. Beaumont always had the look of a fox about him, in the sharp angles of his face, the severe cheekbones and chin, and how he always seemed to look smug, no matter what the occasion. He'd heard rumors that Beaumont had gone far and beyond the patriotism of most when it came to slaughtering nobles. He'd heard often he didn't even wait
But what was one to say about rumors? He'd spread a few rumors about his sexual prowess and who he had slept with just to make things interesting before. Who was to say that Beaumont had not done the same to give him a terrifying reputation? Francis had always found him somehow unsettling, and had avoided his company whenever possible.
"A vagrant. I was taking care of things," Francis said. "It's good pay."
"Don't lie, Francis. We both know Hubert finally met his end like the fool he was."
Francis looked for a clever remark, but it was then that the light shifted enough to see the pistol.
"Ah, yes. I see you can now see your end. I'm obliged to kill you, given you are a traitor and just killed Hubert, you see. I can't say I'm regretful, however. I've been waiting to take out your conceited, self-serving, noble-blooded carcass for a long time."
"I see you did join your lover after all," Beaumont said. "It was very kind of you to lead us right to him - your attempts at hiding are quite pathetic, but then, you always were too vain to stay in the shadows."
"Your information is erroneous, as always," Francis said.
"Does it matter? People don't escape me, Francis. Think of it as an act of mercy. You'll soon be reunited with him in hell."
"I'm sure I will be seeing you soon enough too, Beaumont," Francis said.
"I'm surprised you didn't kill the boy yourself, given how you feel about nobles. How typical for you to take one as your little whore."
His hands flexed. Perhaps he could throw the knife just far enough to make Beaumont injured too before he died. He would not die pleading and sniveling, but spitting on his assailant. He preferred life, preferred Matthieu's smiles and gentleness; roses and fashions; wit and love and breath and life. These were the thoughts that assailed him: the kisses and love he never would have; the old days when his troupe was if not honorable, then at least interesting and truly believing in their cause, before men like Dupont, Hubert, Beaumont and Robespierre. Fights with Arthur he'd never have, years given freely to Matthieu as they slowly came together, with unhurried touches and kisses and finally their bodies meeting.
Everything he would never have.
Oh, the Bible said one must hate life, hate the world, but he loved it with a passion so much that it made him ache. He stared Beaumont down, grim, and did not allow himself the tears and hysterics of some of the nobles he had watched die, but of those who had gone to their death proudly, without a tear, never bowing their will to their captors until the last.
There came a still, soft voice cutting the dark. "Dieu me pardonne car j'ai péché...."
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Je suis désolé: I'm sorry
calme-toi: calm down, basically.
-
In the last agony, the pistol had been thrust upwards, and instead of a fatal blow, it sank into Francis' already injured arm. He flinched in pain, trying to cradle his arm against a new searing pain.
He'd taken musket balls and pistol shells before, giving him some of his more notable scars. However, it was never the sort of pain one got used to.
"Oh...Dieu me pardonne car j'ai péché...." the voice repeated.
In his falling, Matthieu was revealed behind him, holding a serrated knife, his face very pale. He looked down, as if he could not quite comprehend what had happened, what he had done.
"He....he was going to....I...."
"Matthieu..." Francis said.
"You're hurt..." Matthieu said. He shook himself free of his momentary paralysis, and stepped over Beaumont to reach Francis.
"I'll live," Francis said. He coughed, and tried to smile, but the pain was too great.
"Matthieu....what are you doing here?" Francis said. He clutched at his arm. The shirt had bled through. Of course, the one rule of the rogue: never wear white when killing a man.
His hands were grimy from disposing the body.
Matthieu took note of his shirt. His face grew ghastly white, and he began to tremble. He touched the dried blood, now turned a shade of brown as if he were in a witch's thrall.
"Matthieu, stop it. Don't touch it, you'll make it worse."
"Then it's true....?" Matthieu said.
"Don't worry about them; they won't trouble us anymore," Francis said.
"He was right...." Matthieu said. "I didn't want to believe him, but he must have been right...."
"Matthieu, what are you saying?" Francis said. His mind was fuzzy already from the sharp pain.
"You came here to kill me, didn't you?" Matthieu said. His voice was very low, and very calm. "To get revenge? To take me back to the guillotine? Was not that what you wanted?" The last sounded an accusation, and Matthieu began to step away.
Matthieu put the bloody knife he had used to gut Beaumont to his heart. His hands were trembling so much, that the blade shook in his grasp.
"Kill me, then. Stab me in the heart - it already feels like you have! I am already a damned man, as it is... But please...don't send me to that place. If I have to die, let it be by your hand...I don't want to go alone and slaughtered like cattle....."
"Matthieu, don't do it," Francis said. He limped forward, and Matthieu looked wary.
"I won't harm you," Francis said, soothingly, as if he were talking to a skittish animal. "Calme-toi."
Matthieu looked lost and confused, longing to trust him, and yet unsure if he could any longer.
"There's so much blood..." He said in a whisper. "So very much blood....and I have committed a mortal sin...I-"
Francis pulled the knife from him, and let it clatter onto the ground. The simple act, one he'd done more times than most, sent pain shooting down his arm. He flinched, and Matthieu's hands fluttered over him, worrying and yet not quite touching.
Francis stroked Matthieu with his dirty hands, wondering for the first time whether he had any right to do so.
"No, coeur. I didn't come here to kill you. I won't let them catch you," Francis said in a reassuring tone. He leaned against the wall, and both he and Matthieu together slowly crumpled to the cold cobblestones.
"You see....I was to be put on that chopping block myself, so I came here to clear my name. There was an accusation that I let the son of de Guilleaume, go on purpose, that I was an aristocrat supporter, a mole."
Matthieu's eyes widened.
"F-forgive me. Je suis désolé. I-I got confused, a man came to me said things and I thought-"
"It is all right. Calme-toi."
He put his uninjured arm about Matthieu, and pulled him to his chest.
"Calme-toi," he whispered again.
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"Shh, petit. You do not need to go on. I know; I've seen many executions."
No wonder he had been so affected by seeing that hanging, and now to be pushed this far by Beaumont, to have to stain his hands. He hoped Beaumont would enjoy the many tortures of hell, for anyone who did such a thing to Matthieu deserved no less.
"I miss everyone so much that it feels like my insides are slowly being scooped out until there's nothing....and yet I know I'll never see them again. Any of them. Were we really evil? Is this punishment from God? Did we deserve to be slaughtered like animals?"
For the first time Francis questioned his actions. He had sent his family members to die, for freedom. He knew firsthand that nobles were selfish, careless and completely self-involved. He knew they cared little for their people, who might as well be cattle for the way they lived, and yet...
What if he had sent Matthieu to the guillotine simply by merit of his birth?
Matthieu was an exception to the rule. He'd never met another noble who'd treat the lower people just as their own, who'd try and prepare everything himself to keep from being a burden, who would teach a little urchin how to read with never implying that he was anything but an equal. He was gentle and kind, he did not deserve such a fate. The thought of sending him to die such a gruesome death made him shudder inside.
"Listen, I'm not going to let any harm befall you . If anyone wants to take you back, they'll have to kill me first," Francis said. "I promise this; I stake my life on it."
He kissed Matthieu's bloody hands, and Matthieu looked down at him, welling up with emotions. He read happiness and sadness, weariness and tenderness all in that gaze.
"Paris is no place for either of us, anymore, it seems. I am not even sure if England is safe for us. This Hubert had every intention of slitting my throat today."
"I'm sorry for being selfish and weak...It seems I can't be any use to you again...."
"Again? What do you mean, petit?"
"It's not surprising that you don't remember me. Arthur and I are relations...I saw you that summer you and he..." Matthieu flushed.
"The summer I deflowered him, yes."
"I followed you around all that summer. You used to give me flowers and say I'd become beautiful and that you'd marry me when I grew older." Mattieu colored. "I saved them all and dried them in books and waited for you to return....When I left I had to leave everything behind but the clothes on my back. I couldn't even bring the bear you gave me."
"You know, I do remember that, but I didn't connect him with you - you'd certainly grown too much."
"I am surprised you remember even that... I never quite got over you. I kept trying to find you...it was my fault you were found out and why they thought I was your lover. My...stupid childish infatuation that nearly got you killed."
"De Guilleame's bastard child," he breathed.
Matthieu nodded sadly.
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"I-I'm so relieved you weren't executed with them. You're the only person I feel happy around and it's always been like that... I was alone for so long and then you came and made me so many promises...I clung to them all because they were all I had." Matthieu choked back a sob and continued.
"Losing everyone was so hard I...I.. The only way I could even survive it was thinking that one day I would find you again."
"Matthieu...We're a pair of bastards together, coeur," Francis said. "Nobody wants us."
Matthieu nodded, trying to smile for him. "I-I want you..." He breathed.
"And I want you," Francis said. They touched bloody hand to grimy hand and held onto each other. Matthieu smiled, and it was as if the fog had receded and the sun had come out from behind the clouds and pushed back the damp, cold dark.
"You're even more lovely when you smile, coeur...."
This won him another smile.
They lay together. Matthieu's fingers were stroking Francis' hair, and he was nuzzled up against his neck.
"I promise I won't leave you, mon amour."
"Really? You mean it, and you're not just being charming?" Matthieu said. He looked like he didn't dare to trust, even as much as he longed to.
"I solemnly promise on the firmament of heaven," Francis said.
"Do not be blasphemous, I already have to pray for your soul enough," Matthieu said.
Matthieu broke from his grip, and ripped at his shirt. His shirt too was ruined, stained with blood and dirt from Francis, but his sleeve had remained relatively clean. He spread apart the remains of Francis' sleeves, and wrapped it in the bandage.
"I am sorry for being weak. I should have done this immediately."
He rose up and offered his hand. Francis took it, and despite being slick with blood, he did not slip and they came up together.
"There must be a physician nearby, surely."
"George was to get them. I'm afraid Beaumont wasn't alone and might have kept him from reaching us."
"Lean upon me," Matthieu said.
"Coeur, it's my arm that's hurt, not my leg," Francis protested.
"You're injured and weak," Matthieu said.
"As you wish," Francis said, faintly amused. As they walked, Francis allowed himself to lean on Matthieu. It didn't lessen the pain, but he found pleasure in the closeness.
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"An elopement? How scandalous," Matthieu said, though he sounded even a bit wry.
"Scandal follows me everywhere I go, like a lover. I say life isn't worth living without some truly good scandals, and if I have to make them myself, well...." Francis said.
"You're shameful," Matthieu said, but he said it with fond admonition.
"Yes, I truly am. It is one of my better qualities," Francis said.
Step by step they came closer. They passed drunks, huddled urchins, but did not even dare to look at them. An injured man was no oddity in this part of town. They were dirty enough that the cutpurses would probably stay away, even if they looked like easy prey.
"Where will we go to?" Francis mused. "The new world?"
"Arthur is still very angry at the colonies for their independence. He'd say going around that lot would teach me bad manners," Matthieu said.
"Well it is not the only one. The Canadian colony used to be French. You would be able to keep your language and your religion."
"It's cold there though, isn't it? It's probably not to your liking..."
"Then you will have to warm me up, then won't you?"
Matthieu blushed, but it was only a faint tinge of rose instead of his usual reactions.
"Have I corrupted you this much, mon lapin? That the thought of being in my bed doesn't make you need salts?"
"Give me a little longer, then I'll b-be properly corrupted," Matthieu said.
Francis laughed. "You are too much, Matthieu."
"When we get there...Please leave the talking to me. .I will explain it all," Matthieu said.
"I don't want you on the receiving end of his rage," Francis said.
"I know you think I am weak...and I am, but I am trying to grow stronger. Please let me be strong for you...I don't want to see Arthur hurting you."
Francis laughed. "Arthur isn't a monster, chéri."
Matthieu's cheeks puffed out in frustration. "W-well even if it isn't that, he might snap and hurt you and I don't want you bruised...."
"I could bruise him back," Francis said. "An eye for an eye."
"I-I don't want you near him," Matthieu burst out. "You're close and you've got history together and- and-"
This only made Francis laugh more. "Coeur, have I made you jealous? Arthur and I can barely stay in the same room with each other without fighting. Yes, these battles are fun for a time but doing that every day would make it tedious. You on the other hand, calm me and make me strive to be a better man," Francis said. He nuzzled against Matthieu's shoulder.
"We are almost there," Matthieu said. "Please be strong for me a little longer."
His cheeks were rosy, and not merely from the cold of the night. Francis wished for a bit of wine to dull the pain, and said a little prayer that George had not been intercepted. He and God were not on the best of terms, for he had not said his rosary in a very long time, and only celebrated the feast days for the sake of more sinning, but supposedly God was supposed to be merciful. Surely he'd be able to listen to a sinner's prayer as well as a saint's.
*
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The physician they found was in the quarter and used to such late-night wounds, and most of all, a few extra coins pressed to his palm and he would keep his silence. Matthieu held to his hands as the physician worked whatever white magic physicians were capable of. He held like the sheer act of clinging to him would wrest him from death's grip.
"I'll live, Matthieu."
"If you do not...I am not sure what I would do," Matthieu said softly. He pushed up his lunettes, leaving a smear of dirt on the rim, and the top of the glass. When he tried to clean them, he found his shirt covered in blood and grime.
"You know, I could never die without knowing how you found me.
"I...I was going to visit you.I met George in your rooms and he told me what happened....I couldn't allow that, so I went," Matthieu said.
"This late at night? Alone? Matthieu what were you thinking?" Francis admonished.
"Francis said he had a very bad feeling about today, that someone would die. I couldn't get it out of my mind, and I had to see you... "
"For that I am glad, otherwise I probably would be dead now," Francis said. "I owe you my life now, petit."
"Then you can repay me by surviving the night," Matthieu said.
"I'll live," Francis said again. "How could I ever forgive myself if I made you cry?"
Matthieu began to count down holy names: Saint's, the Blessed Mother, God and Jesus, his fingers moving over Francis' fingers as if they were holding a rosary.
Francis thought he had never loved him more, but he had thought that five minutes ago. Each new moment he thought this, adding to the adoration which he knew would only grow as the days progressed.
*
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"Matthew! What the-"
"Francis saved me from a marauder..." Matthieu said slowly. "He tried to stab me, and Francis took the blow for me."
Arthur narrowed his eyes and lifted Matthieu's chin to check every bruise to try and tell if it had been made by violence or love. Francis, as if he had put Matthieu up to this. And yet, Matthieu stayed strong. Francis was proud of him. He kept up the facade, with just enough tremors and meekness to be believable. The boy was far more enterprising than he'd first thought.
But he was not so good an actor as to hide what had transpired between them. As it was said amor tussisque non celantur: love and a cough cannot be hid.
"I-I don't believe we will be safe here anymore," Matthieu said. Surely he had meant I but the we slipped out, for indeed they already thought of each other as entwined as a wife and husband. No vows had been spoken, and yet the thought until death do us part was already ingrained in their minds.
"We? Matthew, there is no we with Francis," Arthur said, his voice cold. "He uses people and then tosses them aside."
"I have been most grateful for your help, but I cannot simply remain your ward forever. I cannot pick up the pieces when the constant fear of being found lies over my head. Today's attack has only made those fears realized."
"You could go up to Scotland for a while. They'll never find you there," Arthur said.
"I have to become more than someone's child, someone's ward," Matthieu said in a gentle, yet firm manner. "I am ever thankful for your kindness, but I must rely on myself or I will continue to be this useless fragile boy who is good for nothing but reading and piano playing," Matthieu said.
"Don't say such things about yourself," Francis murmured. "You've never been useless in you life."
"But I was not strong..."
"There is more to life than strength," Francis said.
Matthieu accepted this argument. Throughout this, Arthur grew silent. For a moment, Francis thought he would shout of Matthieu's ungrateful nature, and he tensed to defend Matthieu, for he'd experienced enough tumult for two lifetimes, but he kept silent. He did not look pleased, and the glance he gave Francis was venomous. Still, he did not lash out at Matthieu.
"All right," Arthur said. "If you want your freedom, I'll give you it. There's no fortune to give you any longer, but I will provide enough for your travels on the condition you keep it tight and don't let Francis gamble it or drink it to nothing."
"Honestly, Arthur, you make me out to be some monster," Francis said.
"You're the monster that's stealing my ward away," Arthur said tetchily.
"And the monster who stole your virginity away, don't forget that," Francis said.
Arthur let out a growl of frustration and stormed out, apparently desiring, yet unwilling to choke his ward's lover in front of him.
Matthieu shook his head. "You just had to mention it, didn't you?"
"I have to make every moment count," Francis said. Matthieu was not placated, and still looked a discontented, so he kissed his cheek.
"We are old enemies, nothing more. Truth be told I think without the drink, we might not have gone any farther than punching each other," Francis said.
"Really, I could hardly tell with the way you're shamelessly charming him," Matthieu said tetchily.
He kissed Matthieu's cheek again. "You're the one I chose. It's inevitable that I charm people as I go on, but it will go no farther than a few idle flirtations."
Matthieu seemed to accept this answer.
"I will be back soon," Francis said.
"Scouting for more?" Matthieu asked.
"No, merely a moment outside," Francis said.
He went outside to smoke his pipe, because at this point he thought Arthur might try and shove it down his throat. Within a few minutes, Matthieu joined him.
Morning itself was already near. There was a belt of light rising on the skies, and muffling out the stars.
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