locked from the outside. Adrien was happy to learn that, far from its dreaded reputation as a house of horrors, the Bastille was the rather luxurious confinement for the country’s wayward elite. While it was a lesson he would rather have not learned firsthand, he was relieved nonetheless.
A knock on the door interrupted his reverie. His manservant showed Antoine in and took his coat.
“Happy birthday,” Antoine said. “How was the party?”
Adrien shrugged. “The wine was good, the women not as much, though they did seem to get better the more I drank.”
Antoine took a seat on the couch. “I see that the years of incarceration haven’t changed you much.”
“Just keeping the sword sharp, my friend.” Adrien waved his servant away. “Rusty blades have a tendency to fall off, you know.”
“And sharp ones thrust in the wrong places tend to be locked up.”
“
Touché
. My beloved duchess does know how to hold a grudge, doesn’t she?”
“And so do the people of France, it seems,” Antoine said. “Their grumblings grow louder outside these walls. There are whispers of revolution.”
“I’ve heard the warden speak of such things, too,” Adrien said. “With my luck, the masses will rise up and forget that I’m locked in here.”
“Perhaps,” Antoine said. “But I will not. I will never forget you. You have my word.”
Adrien embraced Antoine. He thought it was ironic how their years apart had brought them closer. He had grown to appreciate his friend’s company more now that they were not busy emptying their wineglasses or unlacing corsets. He had more time to listen to Antoine’s stories. His tales of basilisks, ancient monasteries, and war were the highlights of Adrien’s week. He liked the stories with chickens the best. Earlier, he had worried that Antoine would run out of stories to tell, but he never did. Adrien had learned that his friend had a vast and wild imagination, but real or not, Antoine’s tales made him laugh and, sometimes, even cry.
“We are family.” Antoine drew away and ruffled Adrien’s hair. He handed him a satchel. “Here. I brought you more books in case you find some time between your card games and dinner parties.”
“Thank you. I enjoyed last week’s selections immensely. The three Bibles you sent were difficult to put down.”
Antoine grinned. “I thought they might comfort you in these trying times. But I think you’ll find the history books I have for you this week more to your liking. They are absolutely hilarious.”
“Antoine, I do believe that you are the only one I know who finds history books comical,” Adrien said. “So will you be staying for dinner? The new chef makes an excellent roast, and I think we shall be having some fruit tarts for dessert. They are always quite delectable.”
PARIS
July 14, 1789
A drien rapped his knuckles against the inside of his door. “Hello? Is anyone out there?”
One of the Swiss mercenaries contracted to guard the prison answered from the hallway. “What do you want?”
“I do believe it’s time for my walk,” Adrien said.
“Prisoners are not allowed out of their cells today.”
Adrien heard the guard walking away. “Wait. Why?”
“It is for your protection.”
“From what? Tripping on a rock in the courtyard? Come now. Let me out.”
“I can’t.”
“Then tell me what’s going on out there.”
The guard took a deep breath. He walked back to Adrien’s cell and whispered through the door, “A mob—a large one—is gathering outside.”
The shouts of the crowd grew loud enough to be heard in Adrien’s cell. They demanded that the fortress surrender and give up its cache of gunpowder and arms. Adrien wondered if that was all they wanted. Their voices were ragged. Hungry. Perhaps for justice, or for something more. Would the people see him as a prisoner or as a man of privilege, a symbol of all they despised? Or did it even matter as long as they could find limbs to grab onto
A knock on the door interrupted his reverie. His manservant showed Antoine in and took his coat.
“Happy birthday,” Antoine said. “How was the party?”
Adrien shrugged. “The wine was good, the women not as much, though they did seem to get better the more I drank.”
Antoine took a seat on the couch. “I see that the years of incarceration haven’t changed you much.”
“Just keeping the sword sharp, my friend.” Adrien waved his servant away. “Rusty blades have a tendency to fall off, you know.”
“And sharp ones thrust in the wrong places tend to be locked up.”
“
Touché
. My beloved duchess does know how to hold a grudge, doesn’t she?”
“And so do the people of France, it seems,” Antoine said. “Their grumblings grow louder outside these walls. There are whispers of revolution.”
“I’ve heard the warden speak of such things, too,” Adrien said. “With my luck, the masses will rise up and forget that I’m locked in here.”
“Perhaps,” Antoine said. “But I will not. I will never forget you. You have my word.”
Adrien embraced Antoine. He thought it was ironic how their years apart had brought them closer. He had grown to appreciate his friend’s company more now that they were not busy emptying their wineglasses or unlacing corsets. He had more time to listen to Antoine’s stories. His tales of basilisks, ancient monasteries, and war were the highlights of Adrien’s week. He liked the stories with chickens the best. Earlier, he had worried that Antoine would run out of stories to tell, but he never did. Adrien had learned that his friend had a vast and wild imagination, but real or not, Antoine’s tales made him laugh and, sometimes, even cry.
“We are family.” Antoine drew away and ruffled Adrien’s hair. He handed him a satchel. “Here. I brought you more books in case you find some time between your card games and dinner parties.”
“Thank you. I enjoyed last week’s selections immensely. The three Bibles you sent were difficult to put down.”
Antoine grinned. “I thought they might comfort you in these trying times. But I think you’ll find the history books I have for you this week more to your liking. They are absolutely hilarious.”
“Antoine, I do believe that you are the only one I know who finds history books comical,” Adrien said. “So will you be staying for dinner? The new chef makes an excellent roast, and I think we shall be having some fruit tarts for dessert. They are always quite delectable.”
PARIS
July 14, 1789
A drien rapped his knuckles against the inside of his door. “Hello? Is anyone out there?”
One of the Swiss mercenaries contracted to guard the prison answered from the hallway. “What do you want?”
“I do believe it’s time for my walk,” Adrien said.
“Prisoners are not allowed out of their cells today.”
Adrien heard the guard walking away. “Wait. Why?”
“It is for your protection.”
“From what? Tripping on a rock in the courtyard? Come now. Let me out.”
“I can’t.”
“Then tell me what’s going on out there.”
The guard took a deep breath. He walked back to Adrien’s cell and whispered through the door, “A mob—a large one—is gathering outside.”
The shouts of the crowd grew loud enough to be heard in Adrien’s cell. They demanded that the fortress surrender and give up its cache of gunpowder and arms. Adrien wondered if that was all they wanted. Their voices were ragged. Hungry. Perhaps for justice, or for something more. Would the people see him as a prisoner or as a man of privilege, a symbol of all they despised? Or did it even matter as long as they could find limbs to grab onto
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