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These reports all said the same thing: the boy could not be reformed. Simon had tried—and now Tristan wondered at his methods—to persuade the boy of the evils of theancien régimeand the merits of the new republic. And though the boy had repeated what he’d been told and even testified against his mother at her trial, the verdict was that the boy had not really changed his ways.
On paper all of this seemed reasonable, but standing on the other side of the child, the stink of the boy’s own feces making him gag, Tristan began to see the whole thing as ridiculous. This was a child. It was unconscionable to treat a child in this manner. Even the worst abuses of the nobles did not compare to this.
“And what of the boy’s mental state?” he asked. “Does he not have any interaction with others?”
“We don’t coddle him,” Simon said. His eyes narrowed. “Do you have some love for the aristos? Perhaps you want to see the boy sitting on the throne at Versailles?”
“No!” Tristan said a bit too quickly. He had stepped onto a slippery slope. He should take his leave now before Simon or the captain of the guard reported him to Robespierre or accused him of being a royalist. He should leave the boy and think no more about him.
But he could not.
“I want to see him,” he said.
Simon gave Tristan a dark look. The man obviously took Tristan’s request as a direct challenge to his authority. Simon was a short, compact man with the body of a pugilist. His forearms, visible where his coarse shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow, were corded with muscles. He flexed his fists and the muscles bunched and released. Tristan imagined the man was considering plowing a fist into Tristan’s face.
Instead, Simon moved closer to the door and pushed the torch near the panel in the door. “He’s right there. In the bed.”
Bed? Tristan had seen the small figure under a coarse blanket lying on the mattress on the floor. And he knew the thing under the blanket was alive because it shivered with cold. The stone floor under the mattress must have been ice cold, and with very little between the child and the floor, he would probably shiver all night.
Tristan did not want to feel compassion—not for this son of the most privileged in the land—and if he walked away now, he might be able to put the boy from his mind. He might be able to tell himself that the fire really had gone out and would be lit again as soon as he’d left. The excrement would be cleaned. The boy living in a room with only a tiny barred window would be allowed to walk in the sun on occasion.
He did not want to see the form under that thin blanket because if he looked into the boy’s eyes, he might not be able to walk away so easily. Alexandra Martin and the traitors she associated with had already affected him more than was safe. If he walked away now, he could forget about this boy. He could go back to his work for the republic.
Back to watching Robespierre murder every man, woman, or child who crossed him.
“Wake him up,” Tristan ordered, his voice firm and hard.
Simon curled his lip and looked at the captain of the guard for support. Tristan kept his gaze firmly on Simon.
Finally, the captain cleared his throat. “You heard him, citoyen.”
Simon swung around, and Tristan had to force himself not to shrink back. But Simon didn’t try to hit him. Instead he reached for a long metal rod leaning against the door and lifted it. Tristan had a moment to wonder if the man would strike him with it, but he struck the door instead.
Tristan started as Simon banged on the bars of the window and yelled. “Get up, Citoyen Capet. Stand up now.”
As Tristan watched, the little form on the bed seemed to shrink into itself. The child must be terrified. If Tristan did not like the look of Simon, how must the man appear to a child?
“Get up, Capet!” Simon yelled. “Stand up or you’ll feel the back of my hand. And this time I won’t be careful not to bruise your pretty little face. Up!”
The figure on the bed moved slowly, almost painfully, and Tristan watched in horror as a small skeletal figure climbed unsteadily to its feet. It was dressed in rags, clothes that had once been of good quality but now hung on the child in tatters. He had outgrown the clothing as well. The cuffs of the shirt were halfway to his elbows and the trousers were so high the boy’s ankles were exposed. His blond hair was matted and dull. His blue eyes were unfocused. He wavered on his feet and stood staring blankly ahead.
“My God,” Tristan whispered.
Simon ignored him. “Walk up and down your cell. Show the man you’re in good health.”
The skeleton began to trudge painfully from one side of the small chamber to the other. At every word Simon spoke, the boy cringed back as though in fear.
“What have you done to him?” Tristan asked.
“Nothing the little brat didn’t deserve,” Simon said, his malicious gaze on the boy. “Look at the way he walks. Still thinks he’s king of the world. Let me in there for a quarter hour, and I’ll show him who’s king.”
“I’ve seen enough,” Tristan said and turned away. He couldn’t watch anymore or he would be ill. “Captain, I am ready to depart.”
Tristan wasn’t certain which way was out, but he could not bear to stay another moment. He walked away, and the captain scurried in front of him, leading the way out of the tower. He spoke as he walked, but Tristan could hardly make sense of a single word.
“So you see the boy is quite secure. No one will get to him who doesn’t have permission, and even if they did, they wouldn’t get that door open.”
They finally reached the ground floor, and Tristan all but fell into the courtyard and the fresh air. The stink of the boy’s cell had stayed with him.
