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“I will walk down toward the Bastille and see what we discover,” Hugh said.
“Monsieur, I beg you not to.” The vicomte wrung his hands. “It is too dangerous.”
“I’ll be careful.” He started for the door, then gave Angelette a hard look. “Stay here and don’t open the door for anyone but me.” He walked out of the drawing room and she followed. At the landing for the stairs, she grasped his coat.
“Be careful.”
He smiled down at her. “So you are worried about me.”
“I’m terrified for all of us.”
He cupped her chin with his hand. “No one would ever know it by looking at you. You look as cool as one of Gunter’s ices.”
She swallowed. “I’m not made of ice, though. And I don’t want to lose you.”
“I’ll be back.” He bent and kissed her softly. “That’s a promise. Lock the door behind me.” Then he released her and was gone.
She locked the door and returned to the drawing room where the vicomte pressed a glass of wine into her hand. “Drink this. I think we both need one.”
She drank and paced and drank and paced. She went all too frequently to the window to look out, but the few people on the street were not familiar to her. She was walking away from the window and checking the time on the bracket clock once again when the door burst open and a servant entered.
“Forgive me, Monsieur le Vicomte.”
“What is it, Pierre? You have heard news?” Her host set his wine on a table. Angelette sank into the closest chair. Her knees were weak with worry for Hugh and fear for the city and the people of Paris.
“Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte. The Bastille. It has fallen.”
“Mon Dieu.”
“Are there any casualties?” Angelette asked.
The servant turned and bowed to her. “I do not know, Madame la Comtesse. I think there must be some.” He looked back at his master. “Shall I go find out, Monsieur le Vicomte?”
“No. Stay here. Stay inside and be safe. We will all stay inside tonight.”
“Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte.” He bowed and was gone.
“I cannot believe the Bastille has fallen,” de Merville said, sitting and running a hand through his fine hair. “How can this have happened?”
Angelette went to sit beside him. “You did not see the people. There were a thousand or more, and when we escaped they were bringing in cannons. I do not see how theinvalidescould have held out without the support of the army.”
“The army.” De Merville shook his head. “They are worth nothing.” Suddenly, his head shot up, and he looked at Angelette, then at the window.
“What is it?” she asked, but then she heard too. It was a distant roar that grew louder by the second. The sound of a great crowd coming nearer.
Without a word, the two rose and went to the window. They peered out and at first saw nothing but the deserted street. Then a few men carrying flags and crude weapons ran by, quickly followed by more. The crowd was not angry, though. They were singing, rejoicing. Many of them danced in the streets, their limbs covered with soot from fires or gunpowder, some with blood on their clothing.
“Look away,” the vicomte ordered. “Angelette, turn away!”
She’d never heard him speak so, and she quickly turned her back to the window. “What is it?” she asked.
“It is too horrible. The peasants have killed the governor of the Bastille and are—no, it is too awful.”
Angelette reached for a chair. When her hand did not land on one, she sank to the floor. De Merville pulled the shutters closed, blocking out the noise of the victors and the last of the fading summer sunlight. Night would be on them soon and with it all the horrors of the dark.
He crouched down beside her. “The English viscount will return soon. You need not worry.”
“I just want him to return with his head still attached to his shoulders.”
