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Gabrielle stared at her, wondering who would expose the poor man thus. As the woman set her knitting aside and climbed down from her cart, Gabrielle saw she was old, her hair stringy and gray, her clothes shabby. On her feet she wore the sabots so common in the countryside. In her hand she held a whip with colorful ribbons. Then Gabrielle peered closer.
“Those aren’t ribbons,” she murmured.
“No,” Sedgwick answered. “It’s hair cut from the victims of the guillotine.”
Bile rose in Gabrielle’s throat. The whip’s handle held curly blond hair, straight brown hair, tangled auburn hair, and even coarse silver hair.
“Breathe,” Sedgwick murmured against her ear. “We’ll be free of this in a moment.”
“How—?”
Bibot pulled the marquis from his carriage and shoved him to the ground. The poor man fell on his face, and when he looked up, blood marred his smooth cheek. Gabrielle moved to help him, but Sedgwick held her back. “There’s nothing you can do,” he said. “Be ready to run.”
Gabrielle wanted to turn away, but she couldn’t help but watch as the marquis staggered to his feet and attempted to stand tall.
“Is whatla mèresays true?” Bibot demanded. “Are you the former marquis de Comborn?”
The marquis held his head high as blood trickled down his pale cheek. “I am. And I mean you no harm. I only wish to—“
“Get him!” the old hag screamed.
The marquis flinched and stepped back, but there was no escape. The crowd, which had been seething with anticipation for just such a moment, rushed forward, falling on the aristocrat as though they were ravenous dogs and he the last morsel of meat.
Gabrielle heard someone scream and realized it was she. The marquis was hit and kicked until he fell to the ground, and then he was pummeled still more. Someone had a stick, another a cudgel, a third a pike, and these implements rained down blows on the marquis’s defenseless form. Soon blood covered the hands and arms of those in the mob who had reached the man first. Others fought to reach him so they too could abuse him.
Bibot and the soldiers stood and watched, satisfied looks on their faces.
“Why do the soldiers not stop them?” Gabrielle asked. “Why doesn’t anyone do anything?”
But before Sedgwick could answer—if there even was an answer—the mob pushed the marquis to his feet. The man was limp, and Gabrielle could only pray he was unconscious or dead. “Take him to La Force!” one man called.
“Take him to the Place de la Révolution!” a woman yelled.
“No. Give him justice here and now,” the old hag with her grisly whip ordered. “Let us show these aristocrats they will no longer defy us!”
“Mort à l’aristocratie!” the crowd roared. With a snarl they tore into the poor man, tearing his clothes his hair, his limbs.
“Dear God!” Gabrielle cried as they pulled the man between them in a ghastly game of tug-of-war. One of his arms was severed and she screamed.
Sedgwick’s arms closed about her, and he turned her head away, pressing her face into his chest.
“Shh,” he soothed. She couldn’t so much hear him as feel his breath against her ear. She closed her eyes, trying to shut the image of the marquis’s bloody arm being waved about, showering the mob with fresh blood. But she feared nothing would ever erase that image.
“Can you walk?” Sedgwick asked.
Gabrielle looked up at him, surprised he still looked so normal, his features so composed and calm.
“What?” she asked, helpless to comprehend anything but the death and destruction taking place a few feet away.
“Walk with me,” he said. He put his arm about her waist, under her shawl, so she could feel his warmth through the thin layer of her muslin gown. She stumbled in an attempt to make her feet comply with the dictates of her mind.
“Don’t hurry,” he told her, looking straight ahead. “Just walk as though you have nothing and no one to fear.”
People rushed to the gate, and she and Sedgwick had to stop and swerve and plunge through those eager to witness the murder of the marquis. No one gave them a second glance, but the skin on Gabrielle’s back prickled. She understood Sedgwick’s plan now. They were escaping before the massacre was over and Bibot could question her again.
Would the crowd have torn her into pieces when they realized she was not really a lace maker? She stumbled and almost collapsed as her legs turned to water. Sedgwick caught her and held her firmly upright.
“Gabrielle,” he said sternly, “you must walk. God knows I would carry you, but we don’t want to attract attention. Can you walk?”
