The Tale of Marie Therese (Short Story)

July 3rd, 1793

The Temple Tower, Paris, France

The newspaper arrived dutifully every morning at 6 am.

Marie never read it.

It was pointless. The news was never good and it definitely never changed.

The Protestants were fighting the Catholics. The royalists were fighting the revolutionaries. The peasants were fighting the nobility.

The bad men killed her father.

They wanted to kill her brother.

They wanted to kill her mother.

They wanted to kill her.

She was alone.

Life went on.

She rose when her mother entered the room. She kept her face hidden behind ornate fans. She curtsied to men.

She was perfect.

Try not to frustrate the guards; that was the rule she lived by.

Keep the guards happy and they would keep you safe.

That was the idea.

By eight that night, the sun was just setting. The horizon was a warm orange color that reminded Marie of a particular paint Emile brought her.

Emile was a guard. But he was also something more.

He also happened to be on post in her room tonight.

"I'd like to paint the sky," Marie said, softly.

"Your Highness—?"

"Paint it- the sunset." Marie glanced back. "Emile, come here."

He looked at the door.

"I won't tell," she said. She put out a hand. He came over, carefully and slowly, putting his hand in hers.

He was not like some of the guards: brutish and big.

He was long and slender, and his fingers were no different.

She closed her fingers around his and turned back towards the open sky. They didn't step out onto the balcony.

"Isn't it the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?" Marie asked. She had grown an appreciation for the little things like sunsets and the people who walked below the Tower.

"Out of everything I can see from here, it is not the most beautiful thing in sight," Emile said.

Marie looked back at him, her blonde curls flying with her.

She smiled, natural blush adding to the painted red on her face.

"Might I speak?" Emile asked.

Marie's smile faltered only slightly. She pulled him back inside, shutting the doors to the balcony.

"Speak freely," Marie said, "and please don't call me 'Your Highness.'"

"Marie—" His lips hesitated with the word. "—there will be an attack on the Tower tonight. They will take your brother. I do not know where. In the chaos, I'd like to take you somewhere too-"

"No," Marie said, the panic setting in.

"Marie, listen to me," Emile said. "They will kill you. Your brother is being removed from the throne, your father is dead, and your mother is next. I swear to you: I will keep you safe."

"We must stop them, first and foremost—"

"It's too late for that," Emile said.

"Then why did you not tell me sooner?" Marie asked.

"I only found out today. The other guards don't trust me," Emile said. "But I'm a royalist through and through—" Marie turned away and pulled her hand back. "—Marie you must trust me. I am your only ally."

He put two gentle fingers on the cheek farthest from him, turning her head back towards him.

"Let me get you to the countryside," Emile said. "I truly believe it's the only chance you have."

He gave her the silence to think but his touch was intoxicating. She pulled his fingers away.

"If I run, is it not cowardly?" she asked.

"Not if it saves your life," Emile said.

"The people—"

"I don't believe the monarchy can be saved."

"Then why haven't you given up on it?"

"Because I still believe in you. I want to protect you and if in turn it means I protect the monarchy, then I am a loyalist."

"I understand," Marie said. She was calm again, remembering her place. "What time does the attack start?"

"In an hour— sundown," Emile said.

"What is your plan?"

.........

She heard the gunshots first. Then she heard the screams.

Emile's hand was on her shoulder as she snatched up a light shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders.

"Just follow me," Emile said.

Marie had changed into the lightest and plainest outfit she had, in hopes that it would disguise her better. She'd also pulled all of the pins, topped with pearls, out of her hair until it fell into waves down her back.

He guided her out into the corridor, one hand on his musket, the other on her back.

They moved throughout the halls, which were mostly deserted.

They were almost out the door when they discovered a woman's body on the floor, her white dress blooming with dark red.

Marie started to scream but Emile covered her mouth.

Footsteps were marching from behind them.

Emile whirled around.

"Run, Marie, run outside—"

She looked at him one last time.

Marie-Therese Charlotte of France.

Born December 19th, 1778.

Fourteen years of age.

Emile Lafayette

Born March 22nd, 1774.

Eighteen years of age.

Separate, she was a princess and he was just another guard on her detail.

Together, they were employee and employer, in the public eye, or lovers, behind the door of her room.

He'd seen much more than her with four more years of life. A life of freedom, a life beyond the walls of a castle or a fortress.

But he wouldn't see anything else.

He was trapped in a hallway.

The guard on the other end of the gun didn't hesitate.

The blast and the close proximity, knocked Emile right off his feet, the resulting gust of air blew at the edges of Marie's skirt.

She screamed, out loud this time.

"Don't move," the shooter said, "Your Highness."

She didn't like the way he said it.

Emile had said it with respect.

He said it with a sneering tone.

She fell to her knees beside Emile.

He was already gone, the life had already dissipated from him.

The guard didn't notice the quick movement of her hand to the hand of her lost love, pulling the gun, which was cocked and ready to go.

She pointed it up at the guard and fired, her heart devoid of any sympathy for the guard.

Protect her? No. This one had only hurt her.

He fell back as the bullet hit home.

She took a precious second and kissed Emile's forehead.

Time was up.

She had to run.

Emile had written an address on a slip of paper and put the tiny scrap of paper in her locket.

As she fled the Tower, which was horribly unprotected as the chaos ensued inside, she fished the paper out of her locket.

She knew the street and the house could be found by asking around.

Marie forced her fear down deep inside her.

Images of Emile flashed in her mind.

Hours later, she was standing in front of a tiny shop, her shoes torn to shreds, the hem of her dress fraying, her hair in a tangled mess.

The shop was radiating heat and the lights were on inside, despite the fact that it was nearly five in the morning according to the bells.

Boulangerie, the sign read.

Bakery.

She knocked on the door and listened carefully. Footsteps came to the door, unlatching it.

A rather large man stood there in a white apron. A little girl with brown hair and shining eyes played at his feet. She wore a matching apron.

There was flour in her hair and a little clumps of sugar on the corners of her lips.

"Hello," Marie said. She showed the man her locket.

"Oh, my dear, do come in," he said. Marie stepped inside and the man— the baker— immediately locked the door shut behind her.

"I apologize," he said. She glanced back at him. He was bowing and the little girl was attempting a curtsy. "Your Highness."

"Please," Marie said. "You mustn't. I can't stay long."

"Of course not," he said. "I will alert the men and they will come for you. For now, have a seat." He gestured to a chair by a table.

She did sit and he brought her food and water, probably the best they had.

And she was so grateful. All she wanted was sleep though.

The baker continued his work and carried on a quiet conversation with his daughter, who seemed more captivated with Marie than the bread.

"Are you tired?" the baker asked as the sun began to rise- the same sun she and Emile had been watching just hours earlier.

Then she finally felt the pain of loss.

He was gone.

Her family was gone.

"Yes, I suppose I am."

"It is best we hide you upstairs for now," he said, gesturing up the stairs.

He walked around the counter as Marie stood, straightening her dress. The little girl followed after him.

"What is your name?" Marie asked, crouching down to her level.

"She's very quiet," the baker said. "But her name is Sophie."

Something caught in the dim light of the morning- a little necklace.

Marie reached for the necklace, discovering that it matched her locket.

"Oh," she breathed. Sophie. She should have known.

"This is your sister," the baker said. Sophie blinked and looked up at her father. She didn't understand the words. She wouldn't remember this encounter.

"She's beautiful," Marie said, pushing her little sister's hair out of her face. "I thought she was dead."

"That is precisely what you're supposed to think," he said. "After today, you will not return here. You will not see her again."

Marie didn't like the idea of that.

"You will keep her safe, sir?" Marie asked.

"Absolutely," he said. He patted Sophie's head and Marie knew exactly how the flour had gotten there in the first place.

"I'll go upstairs now," Marie said.

She had never slept as well as she did on the worst bed she'd ever slept in.

The royalists did come but the revolutionaries stopped them on their way out of Paris.

Then she was back in the Tower.

........

August 3rd, 1830

Baudin family home, Paris, France

The newspaper arrived precisely at 6 am everyday.

Henri read it first, then Sophie, then whatever guests happened to be staying.

"Your sister—" Henri started.

"I know," Sophie said, pushing her breakfast plate aside. She had seen the headline.

"Will you see her?" Henri asked.

"I've seen her," Sophie said, her mind some place else. Henri put aside the paper. They were the only ones in the dining room at the moment.

"When?" Henri asked.

"I was young— it was a week before my seventh birthday," she said. "I remember it because I thought she was my birthday present— a big sister. She was beautiful. I don't remember the details, just her face. She was beautiful."

Henri smiled.

Sophie looked up, pulling herself out of that reverie.

"Twenty whole minutes as queen of France," Sophie said. "More than me."

"You will always be my queen, dear Sophie," Henri said.

She smiled.

"You are delusional, Henri Baudin."

"See? Nothing has changed," he said. "The world is the same. Things come and go but we will never change. Isn't that reassuring?"

"Oh, how I love you," Sophie said, standing up.

There was a new day to begin.