#Patton Cœuer

[edupunkn00b]

French Kiss: Tale of the Revolution, Ch. 17: Le Roi est Mort. Longue vie au Roi.

Colorized version of Fighting at the Hotel de Ville, 28th July 1830 by Jean Victor Schnetz. (embedded image description)

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Le roi est mort. Longue vie au roi. - The King is Dead. Long live the King.

12 Julliet 1789

“My father?” Remus asked the steward. 

He nodded once, his eyes warmer than Janus had ever seen them. He waited a moment, then moved to the door. “Shall I call someone to assist, Your Majesty?”

“No,” Remus dismissed him with a wave. “Thank you," he added belatedly, without really looking at the steward. His gaze had gone fuzzy, like he wasn't really seeing any of them. "We will be out presently.” The door clicked shut and Remus sat frozen on the bed.

“My dearest,” Janus whispered, brushing fingers down his cheek. Remus covered his hand with his own, lips pressed against his inner wrist. He stayed like that for a long moment, merely breathing against his skin. The tic in his eyebrow danced and his knee bounced under the sheets. “You’re not alone,” he whispered.

Remus nodded, but didn’t get up.

“May I help you dress?”

“Roman,” Remus murmured, eyes focusing. “He is alone.” He nodded again and, still holding tight to Janus’ hand, climbed out of bed. “Let’s dress and go find him.”

They dressed in silence, speaking with gestures and touch. The steward was waiting outside the new King’s door and, though his gaze lingered briefly on Janus, he merely bowed his head to each of them and led them to the former King’s chambers.

Remus’ heels echoed down the hallway, his formal shoes stiff and hardly worn. Janus remained at his side, keeping pace with his longer stride. He moved as though to delay would only make it worse. The King’s own Mousquetaires stood with lances crossed in front of the closed entrance to the King’s suite.

“Your Majesty,” they said in unison before looking pointedly at Janus. Remus glared back and took Janus’ hand and they, like the steward, bowed their heads and opened the door.

“Re?” Roman’s voice was small. He sat in a chair near the head of their father’s bed, holding his hand. He wore a silk robe tied haphazardly over his sleep clothes, no wig, no makeup. Even dressed so differently, the brothers wore matching expressions, jaws set, identical eyes hard and pained and fighting tears. The King’s eyes had already been closed, the sheets drawn up to his chin. Janus realized he wasn't sure what color the King's eyes had been.

Without being asked, the steward fetched two more chairs. “Thank you,” Remus nodded, the tiniest warble in his voice. “Leave us now.” He waved the steward away and the rest of the staff loitering in the room. Once they’d filed out, he opened his arms to his brother and they cried together.

“He knew, didn’t he?” Roman whispered after a while. “It’s why he insisted we join him at dinner tonight.” The younger brother rested his head against Remus’ shoulder, the stiffness around his eyes and his jaw melting away. “Why he agreed to dismiss everyone else.”

The future King only nodded and held his brother close for a long while. Janus laid his hand on Remus’ shoulder for a moment, then rose and murmured, “Would you prefer privacy?”

Remus’ hand shot out and grabbed his. “Please don’t leave, mon douceur,” he whispered, his other arm still tight around his brother.

“I won’t,” Janus promised, cradling his hand in both of his own as he sat back down. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The room fell quiet again. Eventually, a faint pink dawn bled over the horizon and birds from the gardens loudly greeted the sun’s return. “Does Maítre know?” Remus straightened in his seat and turned toward the door.

“Philomène is with him,” Roman nodded. “He’s…” He frowned and blew out a slow breath “He’d forgotten Father was ill.” He stared, unseeing, as his father’s corpse. “I heard them talking.” His voice was hoarse. “In the hall, before you arrived. The ministers.” He nodded. “They want the coronation immediately, perhaps even before the…” Roman swallowed, still holding his father’s hand. “The burial.”

“They fear a sign of weakness,” Janus nodded. “A chance for chaos, a chance for the more radical voices to be heard. On both sides.”

Remus’ knee bounced and he held tighter to Janus’ hand. “It’s wise,” he murmured. He stared at the morning light as it lit a path across his father’s body. Without his makeup and his wig, the frailty of the King was laid bare. Sunken cheeks, bruised shadows under his eyes, his bony hands… even the gentle light of dawn couldn’t soften the signs of his illness. Either way, there was no hiding it now.

“We must prepare.” 

~~~

14 Julliet 1789

Café de Foy 

“No,” Logan shook his head, cutting at the air in a sharp gesture. “Absolutely not, Lucas.” The young men surrounding the hothead egged him on but Logan stood firm. “We are ill-equipped to storm the palace nor do we have any evidence the King is actually dead.” He stood tall and slapped the table in front of them. “Running off, half-cocked and under supplied all on the whims of a rumor that the Crown is weak will do nothing for our cause.”

“You just don’t want your pretty little friend caught up in it all,” a laughing voice called from the back of the crowd. “Hard to escape when you’re tangled in the royal sheets.” Patton crossed his arms and scowled, scanning each face, but no-one would meet his eyes or take credit for the jab.

“What I don’t want is to see good men die for no reason,” Logan intoned, hands gripping the edge of the table. “What could you even hope to accomplish with this? If the King were dead, all you would do with an attack is garner sympathy for the grieving royal family.” He ignored the crowd and stared at Lucas. “And If the King isn’t dead, you surely would be if you tried to breach the palace walls.” 

“Cowards, all of you!” Colére roared back. “You’d rather sit here and—”

The sound of horses outside interrupted Colére’s rant and the doors slammed open. The runner from the bookshop down the street stood, panting, in the doorway. “Le roi est mort! Le roi est mort!” he cried. “He’s dead! He’s dead!”

Patton moved to his side but Lucas got to him first, grabbing the boy’s shoulders and pulling him over to their table. The students gathered close and someone passed over a mug of sweetened coffee. “Tell us what you know!”

“They hired the southern mason and have him working around the clock.” The boy gulped at the cup pressed into his hands. “His shop is guarded now, the King’s guards, but without their uniforms. Just their fancy boots have his crest.” He shook his head and smiled when he spotted Logan in the sea of angry eyes. “They have guns, though. Taller than me.”

“Are you now going to claim the boy’s lying, Father?” Colére spat at Logan. “Or will you admit your weakness and let those who haven’t lost their nerve do what we must do?”

His words were greeted with a cheer from the young men and they smashed their glasses together, beer and coffee spilling on the messenger boy’s shoulder. Patton took his hand and steered him to the bar. “Stay here, gamin,” Remy murmured, but the boy shook his head.

"I need to go back," he said and ran outside, the closing door cutting off his high voice shouting, "Le roi est mort! Le roi est—" Remy frowned and met Logan and Patton’s eyes. He shook his head, nearly imperceptibly. Logan stepped closer to the students but before he could speak, Colére stomped onto a chair and then up on the table.

“The people, the real people of France, not the royals and their hanger-ons, not the parasites and leeches who move among them, forgetting their true roots, but the people of France have expressed the same wish. Everyone wants to be free. Yes, my dear fellow citizens, brothers and sisters of France, we will make ourselves free.”

Lucas glared at Logan where he stood, whispering in the ear of one of the younger students. He was nodding, listening to Logan, but his head jerked up when Lucas paused. “And who could prevent us from being free? Who would even try?”

He released Logan’s gaze and looked around the crowd. The door swung open and another gaggle of men from across the street poured in. “Who would even try to rend a schism between the brothers of France?” He let his words settle, listening to the rumbling voices and watched as the young man Logan had been speaking to shook his hand off his shoulder.

“The people’s silence in the king’s lesson,” Lucas declared.

The moment he took his eyes off him, Logan slid away and let others fill the space he’d occupied. Again, Remy met Logan and Patton’s eyes and nodded. “Go,” he mouthed, and they moved toward the doors.

“Our nation, our France has been divvied up between the nobles and the clergy”—Lucas stared daggers at Logan before returning his gaze to his crowd—”When really France belongs to us. France belongs to the people.” He let the murmurs quiet and stood tall. “In dark days such as this, it becomes the duty of all our brothers and sisters to join together and take back what is ours.” A cheer rose up from the gathered crowd. “Insurrection is the holiest of duties.

“And it will be hard. It is so easy to sit back and wait for the scraping of the King’s plate to fall into our laps. It is so easy to be sated by the King’s crumbs.

“But the King is dead. Le roi est mort.” Lucas stabbed his finger at the door. More muttering people came in and Remy watched Logan and Patton slip outside. “It is no longer longue vie au roi. We shall not say ‘long live the king, but instead, vive le peuple. Long live the people! Vive le peuple!” He chanted and the room erupted in a cheer.

“Vive le peuple!”

“Long live France! Longue vie a France!”

“Vie a France!”

Someone pressed a tankard into Lucas’s hands and he finished it in three gulps. “To the Bastille!”

“To the Bastille!” The crowd roared and poured out from the café and marched down the streets of Paris.

~~~

Logan and Patton hadn’t gotten more than a few feet from the café when a loud cheer rang out. “The stables,” he whispered to Patton, gripping the shorter man’s sleeve and dodging another group from the typically rowdier pub at the other end of the street. 

“Word is out,” Patton murmured. They moved in silence to the stables, then closed and latched the doors behind them. Patton picked up a saddle and a blanket. “We should leave the carriage. Petit and Naif will be faster on their own, and we can trade off which carries two of us once we have Janus.”

Another rousing cheer broke out, this time from the street. “Merde,” Logan muttered, tightening the strap under Naif. “Ready?” 

Patton nodded and pointed to the side door. “Without the carriage, we’ll fit through there.” He clicked his tongue at Petít, encouraging her to lower her head as they moved through the smaller door. It opened out into an alley. The voices were more distant now, but growing louder. “We should move slowly through the city,” He whispered, moving away from the voices headed toward the Bastille. “We have a bit of a head start but we’ll lose it if we draw too much attention.”

Fingers clenched around the reins, Logan nodded. He was as jumpy as the horses, ready to move, ready to run. But Patton was right. There was no room for mistakes tonight.