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Tristan wondered how much trouble one young boy could be, but he schooled his face into a sympathetic expression. “I will only take a few moments of your time.”
Simon blew out a breath and started up the steps. He huffed and puffed as he climbed the steps. Tristan followed and the captain brought up the rear. On the next level, Simon stopped and pointed toward the apartments. “The girl is in there. I don’t have nothing to do with her. Her aunt shares her rooms.”
“I don’t have a pass to see Marie-Thérèse,” Tristan replied, though he was curious to see the eldest child of the dead monarchs. She was not deemed as important as Louis Charles because France had always been ruled by Salic law, meaning only men could inherit the throne. Thus, even if the royalists did manage to mount a coup and regain power, the princess could not sit on the throne. This meant she had been largely ignored and would probably continue to be so.
Louis Charles was another matter entirely. Though a boy, he was the rightful king of the nation in the eyes of anyone still loyal to the monarchy. In the right hands, Louis Charles could pose quite a danger to the new republic.
“Right,” Simon said, taking a breath and starting up the steps again. “Citoyen Capet is one floor up.”
“I had heard he was separated from his sister and aunt,” Tristan said more out of a desire to break the silence than from any real interest. “How often does he see his family?”
“Never,” Simon grunted out.
Tristan stopped and the captain of the guard almost plowed into him. “Our orders are to keep them apart. We don’t want the little brats plotting.”
“Plotting?” Tristan let out a short laugh. “They are children.”
Simon turned and looked at him, his face rather menacing in the dim, flickering light. “They might be children, but they are canny. Don’t trust them or turn your back on them.”
Tristan, who had grown up with a younger sister and brother plus innumerable cousins, could only raise a skeptical brow.
Finally, they reached the apartments of the young would-be king. The door was guarded by a tired-looking thin man, who saluted and moved aside when he saw Simon. Simon stepped to the door and grasped a small wooden knob about three-fourths of the way up. Using the knob, he slid a wooden panel aside and stepped back.
“There he is. Sleeping in his bed.”
Tristan stepped to the panel and peered in. He did not know what he’d expected to see, but the sight that greeted him shocked him to his very bones. He had to step back and look again because he did not quite believe it at first glance.
The room was tiny and dark. The illumination from the torches on this side shed some light into the darkness, but not much. There was a high barred window in the room but no fire. The room was small with only a mattress on the floor, a table, and one chair within. No rugs softened the cold stone floors, no paintings brightened the plain stone walls.
All of this was bad enough, but worst of all was the stench. Tristan covered his nose with his sleeve and turned to Simon. “What is that stink?”
Simon waved a hand, appearing unconcerned. “The door is padlocked. That way we don’t have to worry about the boy being rescued. He doesn’t keep the room very clean. Messy little brat, he is. Thinks he’s too good to clean his own shit. I tried to knock some of that haughtiness out of him, but he’s irredeemable.”
Tristan stared at the man for a long moment, trying to comprehend. Finally, he took a shallow breath. “Are you telling me the child is locked in the room with his own waste? Does no one remove it?”
Now the captain of the guard stepped in. “As Citoyen Simon said, the room is padlocked. Only I have the key. A temporary precaution against the recent unrest in the city.”
“How long has the boy lived like this?” Tristan asked.
“Not long, not long,” Simon said, but judging from the stink, Tristan did not believe him.
“And what about food?”
Simon gestured to the lower half of the door, where there was a small door that could be opened and then closed and locked from without. “We push it through there. He doesn’t eat much of it, though. Little brat.”
“What about a fire? I’m half frozen standing here. The child must be cold.”
Simon and the captain exchanged an uneasy look. Finally, Simon said, “The stove must have gone out. We light it from the adjoining room. It’s not safe to give the little brat fire, but it keeps him warm enough.”
“And how often does it go out?” Tristan asked.
Now Simon’s brows drew down, and he looked as though he might lift one of his meaty hands and slam it on Tristan’s head. “Maybe you want to bring him a velvet blanket and some of that fancy fruit. We could have servants dress him in furs and pet his blond head.”
“I’m not suggesting that.”
“He’s an enemy of the republic,” the captain of the guard said. “He has food and shelter, and he is safe from any who might do him harm. What else does Citoyen Robespierre want to see?”
Tristan’s jaw tightened. Robespierre hadn’t sent him at all. In fact, the short man had looked at Tristan rather queerly before signing the pass. Robespierre remarked that he’d gone to see Marie-Thérèse and found her quite as disdainful and haughty as her parents had been. The rumor was she had not even deigned to say a word to him. Robespierre had no interest at all in Louis Charles other than glancing at the weekly reports Simon sent.
