Page 54

A Promise to Live

In a murderous horde, the mob rounded up anyone they did not like and killed them on some unfounded basis of lending sympathy to the monarchy or for being wealthy.

They stole barrels of ale and started a bonfire in the middle of Rue de Faubourg Saint-Antoine outside the bakery.

After Gabin had drunk a few mugs, he belched and stood up, still with élise in his firm grip.

“Stay here if you wish, but we will retire for the night,” Gabin said.

élise tried to pry her hand off her arm.

But Gabin laughed. “See my little dove is anxious to get to bed.”

The men roared at the crude humor as Gabin dragged, half-pulled her into the bakery, up the stairs, and threw her on the bed.

But she hopped up and dodged him as he lunged for her. “Where are you going, dove?” he yelled, catching her by the hair again.

She jerked backward, her hands on her head. “Leave me alone, Gabin. I don’t want to be here.”

He threw her against the door and pressed his body against her, holding her wrists above her head with one hand, before pressing his mouth to hers. The malt in his breath made her gag. “I missed you,” he gritted and bit her lip hard.

She squirmed to move her legs, but he had her pinned.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

He punched her in the jaw. She fell to the floor with blood falling from her lip. He yanked her back up. “Looks like we will need to reteach the rules here, élise,” he said with eyes red from the rum.

He wound up to punch her in the face once more. He had hold of her right hand, but Rollant had taught her to use her left. Rollant. His dagger. She reached into her coat pocket. Her fingers brushed the blade—a lifeline she’d never thought she’d use.

Gabin’s fist swung toward her, but instinct—fear, fury—took over. She twisted her wrist the way Rollant had taught her and struck upward. The blade sank into the underside of Gabin’s jaw. His punch never landed. His hands fell limp at his side as he staggered back, gurgling in disbelief.

He fell to the floor in a growing puddle of his blood.

élise stood still, the knife still clutched in her trembling hand.

Her heart beat out of her chest. The blood pool crawled toward her feet, staining the floorboards in dark crimson.

Gabin’s eyes stared blankly at her, wide with the shock of death.

She wanted to feel triumphant, but all she felt was the weight of the blade and the bile rising in her throat.

”I killed him,” she whispered, her voice shaking. But there was no time to think. No time to mourn. If they found her there, they’d string her up alongside Rollant.

A cloud of laughter rose to the window.

She stared at the blood-stained blade, wrapping the handle tighter in her grip before transferring it to her right hand.

All she knew was she couldn’t let Rollant die alone if there was a chance he was still alive.

She grabbed the water pail and hid her weapon in case she had to fight her way back.

She exited the room and snuck down the stairs, out the bakery door, and slid into the shadows.

Malo caught her gaze.

She froze.

Yves looked up and saw her too.

She swallowed hard.

Malo and Yves shared a glance before Malo tipped his head north, and the two men dipped their heads to take another drink and rejoin the conversation as if they’d hadn’t seen her. Maybe she had a few who still cared for her.

Though her breath was shallow, she walked to the well as if Gabin had asked her to get water. Lightheadedness became her enemy. She put the pail on the well’s rim, dropped the knife back into her coat pocket, and began to run.

Her boots clacked on the cobblestone, and she ducked her head, hoping no one heard her or cared. She rounded the street corner to Rue Saint-Honoré. Rollant stood there with his hands in front, untying himself from the lamppost.

“How?” she whispered, her voice breaking as she saw him—slumped but alive, his hands working the rope that bound him. Her feet stumbled forward, driven by relief and disbelief in equal measure. How could he still be standing after everything she’d done?

“Rollant,” she choked out, her tears spilling freely. He paused at the sound of her voice, his head turning slowly toward her, and for a moment, she thought he might collapse.

“élise? What are you doing here?” he asked with a groan of pain.

“I had to come back for you,” she said. “Here,” she reached out and hoisted his hands up so he could roll down to his heels. She unwound the rope from his wrists and began untying his noose.

“How did you get away?” His eyes scanned the bruises on her face and the gash on her lip.

Images of Gabin’s slit neck appeared in her memory. “I had to kill Gabin. He was beating me,” she whispered. Her voice trembled, but she didn’t elaborate.

Rollant gave a small nod, his expression empathetic.

She removed the noose, and he collapsed to the street.

“Well, it serves him right,” he said, leaning back and to the side, likely to ease the pain. She knelt next to him, propping her leg beneath his back to support him.

“I’m sorry you had to do that, élise. I gave you the dagger, hoping you never had to use it, but I’m glad you could get away.” He winced, and lines of pain carved into his brow. “If anything, I hope you stay in Charonne. The city is not what you thought it was.”

She glanced at her hands, studying the dried blood stains, one from Rollant, one from Gabin. Tears ran down her cheeks. “I should have listened to you,” she cried. “I should have?—”

His fingers grazed the sleeve of her coat, silencing her. He rested his head in her lap. “I kept the truth from you,” he said.

The blade stuck out from his belly and moved with each straining breath. His hand wrapped the handle.

“Don’t pull it,” she said, gently placing her fingers on his hand.

“It will be faster that way,” he said.

She started weeping. “I am so sorry, Rollant. I killed my only true friend.”

He cradled her cheek. “I am not dead yet.” He smiled and chuckled with the sound of searing pain ruining its glee. The lamplight glistened in his eyes.

“Oh, Rollant,” she whispered. She pushed his chestnut locks over his forehead and gripped his coat, balling the fabric in her hands. “How will I live without you?”

Tears filled his eyes. “No, how will I live without you?” he repeated her question.

As he slumped against her, she reached to brush his hair from his face, but stopped.

The bruise that had darkened his eye was gone.

The gash on his lip had vanished, leaving no trace of injury.

Her breath caught. This was no trick of the light—his wounds were healing before her eyes, or had she imagined it?

“Rollant?” she asked in a trembling whisper.

The sound of heavy boots striking cobblestones broke the stillness of the night.

élise’s breath caught in her throat. Shadows flickered at the edge of the lamplight, growing larger with each step.

Her pulse quickened as two figures emerged from the darkness, their faces twisted with drunken rage.

They were men from the riot. She saw them join in Les Halles. They must have followed her.

A man’s shout pierced the sky. “What’s going on here?”

“Why’re you crying over the royalist, wench? You a sympathizer, too?” The other barked and drew closer.

Rollant yanked the blade out of his stomach with a groan.

The attacker kicked him in the gut as she screamed, “No!”

The second man kicked her in the side. Air expelled from her lungs as she gripped her ribs. She moaned in pain with an open mouth against the cobblestone.

The man grabbed élise’s hair and yanked her along as the second punched Rollant while he was down.

“Stop!” she yelled.

Rollant caught the man’s boot and shoved it backward, sending the man down beside him. He raised the baker’s knife and plunged it into the man’s chest.

She had both hands on her hair to keep it from ripping from her scalp as she watched in horror.

She screamed again. Rollant staggered to his feet, clutching his stomach, his breaths shallow but determined.

élise’s eyes widened as he lurched forward, slamming his shoulder into her attacker.

The man fell back with a grunt, but Rollant’s strength faltered, and he barely kept himself upright.

Even injured, he fought with the desperation of a man who refused to let death claim him.

“Run!” Rollant yelled to her as he took another punch to his face, already bruising again.

She scrambled backward and to her feet.

“Go home!” he yelled.

Rollant was still trying to save her even after she stabbed him. She picked up a nearby rock and threw it as hard as she could against the attacker. He screamed as the skin was ripped.

“I’ll find you,” he growled as he took a blow from Rollant with his head turned toward her.

“Run!” Rollant yelled again as he landed another punch. But he took two subsequent hits to the stomach and doubled over.

The man yanked the dagger from the dead one’s chest and stabbed Rollant through the ribs.

élise’s insides turned and knotted. Her heart stopped beating and cracked. The tingle of devastation streaked down her limbs. She staggered backward.

“Run!” Rollant yelled with a faded breath as he grabbed the man’s neck.

That time, élise ran with tears streaming into a spinning world. Rollant was saving her. She didn’t want him to die in vain. She vowed never to return to Faubourg Saint-Antoine or Paris. Fear kept her legs moving, and she hoped that if there were a God, he wouldn’t let anyone follow her.

Stumbling through the garden gate of her Charonne home, élise collapsed to her knees, tears soaking the cold earth beneath her palms. She dragged herself inside, barring the door behind her as though it could lock out the horrors she’d left behind.

Throwing herself onto the sofa, her cries filled the empty house, echoing off the walls like a prayer unanswered.

“Forgive me, Rollant,” she sobbed, her voice breaking with each word. “Forgive me.”

She clutched her arms, her nails biting into her skin as guilt pressed down on her. She didn’t deserve life. She didn’t deserve anything. Hate seethed behind her ears and on her cheeks. She had run, but there was no escape. Not from the hate, not from herself.