Chapter Five - Even Proper Gentlemen Falter In the Presence of the Bastille

I emerged from my room the next day once the sky looked as if someone had spilled a bottle of calligraphy ink across the horizon. Though I’d intended to spend the time with Renée discussing what we wished to say to the prison governor once entered the Bastille, every time I imagined venturing belowstairs, the unforgiving embrace of fear gripped my heart, and I went right back to lying on my bed to watch sunshine and shadows flit across my ceiling.

However, the semblance of control I’d mustered earlier disappeared the second I stepped into the grand salon and my eyes landed on Mother. She leaned back against a white velvet chaise, legs propped on a stack of satin pillows and jeweled slippers dangling precariously from her feet. Her hand clasped a crystal glass filled with a clear liquid I had a sneaking suspicion wasn’t water. When I crossed the threshold, she glanced up, raised her glass in greeting, and waved me over with a flick of her alabaster wrist.

“Olivier, mon petit chou, come give your Maman a kiss.”

I shuffled into the room, only then noticing Renée in the corner with a mint and cream striped pillow hugged to her chest. She flicked her eyes to me, and in them was all I needed to know; Mother was in one of her moods—one that came on whenever any of her children were sick, hurt, or in need of care.

“Maman.” I leaned over to give her a hasty kiss on the cheek, nearly toppling into her rose-scented décolletage. She was in an impossible position, head angled away and one hand thrown across her forehead. But her moods rendered her immovable, no matter the circumstance. I assumed she’d been in the same position for at least an hour.

“My head aches terribly,” Mother said, words whispered in a tiny whine. “I had to have something to drink.”

“Your son was arrested, Maman!” Renée burst out. “Don’t you have anything to say about that?”

Mother flinched, hand tightening around her glass. Her eyes didn’t move from where they were fixed on the cloud-covered fresco along the ceiling. “I know what happened, Renée. You needn’t shout. It worsens my headache.”

I looked at Renée, and she responded with an unspoken plea, eyes wide and begging for me to come to her aid. Though I wasn’t certain what she expected me to do. Talking to Mother when she was in this state was like talking to a damask chaise. All she ever did was whine and fuss and demand more of whatever she was drinking, all the while remaining frozen as a blanket of fresh fallen snow. She’d remained frozen when I had my first nervous attack as a child, when I was certain I would choke to death on my own frantic fear. And I knew she would remain frozen now. It was what she did—what she had always done.

“Renée is right, Maman,” I said, voice halting and tentative. I hated attempting to reason with Mother after countless years of being brushed off when I needed her most. But this was for Étienne, dammit, and I had to at least try. “We’re going to the Bastille later this evening to meet with the prison governor. Perhaps if you or Father joined us, we could get everything straightened out.”

Mother’s fingers gripped the glass tighter, until I feared the crystal would shatter under her touch. “I couldn’t. I— My headache. There is nothing I could do— No, I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” Renée leapt up from the couch. “I don’t understand why you never want to help.”

I placed a hand on Mother’s wrist. “If you’re feeling unwell, perhaps Father could—”

“Your father is at the Palais-Royal, chéri.” Mother said nothing more, but that was all the explanation I needed. Father was gambling. Father wouldn’t dare tear himself away from his games even if we were able to travel to the palace and find him in the smoke-filled dens.

I let my hand fall. “Oh.”

Mother lowered her head. For a fleeting second, I thought she might have come to understand the gravity of our situation, but then she brought the glass to her mouth, taking two deep swallows. “I can’t help. I can’t.”

Before I could plead with her again, Renée stormed to the door, yanked it open, and slammed it behind her. The decorative bronze birdcage next to the door wobbled and crashed to the ground, a teal porcelain flower breaking off and skidding underneath a wingback chair.

“You understand, don’t you, Olivier? Mon petit chou?” Mother asked, gray eyes fixed on my own. There was something desperate in them—begging for me to let it alone, praying I wouldn’t press further. “With this headache, I can’t go anywhere.”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to scream and cry and force Mother and Father to come with us and save Étienne. But I knew they wouldn’t. They had never come to our aid before, so why would now be any different?

Instead, I grabbed onto her hand for a second before turning toward the door. “Sure, Maman. I understand.”

I found Renée in the exact spot I knew she’d be, sitting on the stone steps leading to the gardens with her knees pulled up to her chest. It was the same spot she, Étienne, and I spent countless hours before, heads tipped up to the sky to watch the stars until the early hours of the morning.

“Don’t say a word,” she said when I sat down, tightening her arms around her legs.

“I wasn’t going to. I enjoy watching you moodily stare off into the darkness, is all. Though it’d be far more impactful if you weren’t wearing a pink dress. Shall I go fetch your black cloak? You could put it on and pretend you’re a grieving widow whose husband was lost at sea.”

She elbowed me lightly in the ribs. “Wouldn’t that be cause for celebration? My husband dying and leaving me with a substantial fortune. One could only be so lucky.”

“And you could finally run off with Madeleine de Froix.”

Renée sighed. Though a second later, she sidled up next to me and rested her head against my shoulder. The flyaway hairs of her updo tickled my neck, but I didn’t dare push her away.

I leaned my cheek against her curls and fell silent, following her gaze to the manicured topiaries. Étienne’s absence was still a hulking weight around us, but at least in that moment, I knew with Renée by my side, we’d figure something out.

A rustle in the nearby hedgerow brought me back to attention. I lifted my head as Madeleine de Froix came into view, wearing a velvet cloak despite the summer heat hanging in the air.

“Oh. Good evening, Mademoiselle de Froix. Er. . .” All the topics of polite conversation I’d learned throughout the years flew from my mind as quickly as a shooting star, replaced with the knowledge that the last time I’d seen Madeleine, she’d witnessed me cowering on the floor after a nervous attack. “Your knuckles look nice.”

Madeleine blinked. “What?”

“Nothing. I—Nothing.” Jumping from the stair ledge, I straightened the wrinkles in my cream waistcoat and held out a hand to help my sister. Renée ignored my hand completely, hiking up her skirts and leaping to the ground on her own. Her stocking-clad legs were exposed right up to the pink ribbons tied around her knees.

No stranger to my twin sister’s legs after a lifetimeyears of her not giving a fig for decorum, I didn’t glance at them. Madeleine, however, flushed to the roots of her hair.

“Oh, don’t look so out of sorts,” Renée said, though her cheeks, too, were pink. “It’s only legs. You have them as well.” Then she sauntered away, satin skirts swaying against her ankles as she called out, “Are you two coming or not?”

****

Madeleine and Renée, as it turned out, were a maddening pair to share a carriage with. They were both silent, Madeleine’s hands folded across her lap while Renée’s eyes remained fixed on the velvet window trimmings like they were the most fascinating things she’d ever seen. Nerves building, I clutched the sketchbook of Etienne’s I’d shoved in my pocket before we left. It was my intention to hand it over to him inside the Bastille, but for now, I wished to soak up the comforting feel of worn leather against my fingertips.

Though the Bastille was a mere seven minutes away by carriage, the silence grew so thick between us on our ride over, I almost didn’t remember our destination and damn near soiled myself when we paused in front of a drawbridge leading into the prison. Mumbled conversation outside the carriage reached me⁠⁠, and I held my breath, half expecting the guards to throw the doors open and arrest us for the mere attempt of entering.

But a few seconds passed, and we continued on our way, the sound of wheels against cobblestone ringing out into the night.

As we crossed over the stone drawbridge, I dared a peek outside.

And immediately wished I hadn’t.

Countless torches flickered, the bright yellow of egg yolks spilling over the courtyard and into Rue St. Antoine. The Bastille loomed above, four of the eight towers visible and black against the twilight, pinpricks of candle flame winking at us from darkened windows. I couldn’t for the life of me imagine Étienne locked up here like a common criminal, his kind eyes and encouraging smile hidden behind thick stone walls.

We came to a stop, my body frozen rigid until Renée supplied a shove with her foot and I toppled from the carriage. The moats surrounding the prison were dry for the moment, but the stale scent of river water hung in the air, cloying and thick against my throat.

Even so, I sucked it up gratefully, finding it a welcome reprieve to the previously stifling silence. While still catching my breath, a man in a black cloak emerged from the shadows, and I yelped. The sound bounced off the cobblestoned courtyard in a way that was both mortifying and frightful.

“Have you brought the d’Aumont children?” the man asked Madeleine, a single dark eyebrow raised. “I was under the impression the meeting tonight would be with their parents.”

“Our parents are indisposed, so my brother and I have come to speak with you in their stead,” Renée said, performing a flawless curtsy. Her pink dress fanned out around her like fallen rose petals. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The man grunted in response and turned to me.

I’d forgotten how to move. The fate of my brother rested on the outcome of this visit, and I couldn’t mess it up, yet there I stood, a statue.

When I neither bowed nor made a move to greet the man, Madeleine cleared her throat and said, “May I introduce the prison governor, René Jourdan de Launay?”

Oh, God. The whole purpose for being at the Bastille tonight was to speak with the governor, but in my imaginings of how our visit would go, I never thought we’d come face to face with him so goddamn soon.

I wanted to bow and flash a charming smile. I wanted to think of something clever and witty to say. I wanted to show everyone I could be a proper gentleman, and thus could save one of the people I loved most from a horrible fate.

I did none of those things. Instead, I stared at Monsieur de Launay, thinking about all the ways this could go wrong, all the possible outcomes that would ensure I’d never see my brother again. And then, because I hadn’t already made a horrible enough first impression, I said, “Hello, monsieur. Your breeches are remarkably high.”

The governor gaped at me. “I beg your pardon?”

Renée stepped forward, glaring at me over her shoulder. “Allow me to apologize on behalf of my brother, monsieur. He has a disease of the mind, you see, brought on by too many nights of pleasing himself with his own two hands.”

My first instinct was to inform my sister that men tended to please themselves with one hand, not two, but then I remembered the prison governor was standing next to me, and I promptly flushed all the way to my toes.

Madeleine stifled a laugh, but Monsieur de Launay looked horrified. “My God,” he sputtered, “where did you two learn about such sinful acts?”

“Books,” Renée said at the same time I said, “Experience.”

The governor continued to stare at us, saying nothing. I feared he would be scandalized by our lack of manners and demand we leave, but after a moment, he motioned for us to follow him without another word.

“Monsieur d’Aumont was brought in for questioning earlier,” Monsieur de Launay said as he led us across the moonlit courtyard, “and we have gathered all the information we need.”

“If you questioned him, then he must have told you he didn’t kill the coachman,” Renée said.

“He said nothing of the sort, mademoiselle.”

I paused, foot hovering above the ground. “What?”

Renée stopped as well and reached out to unconsciously grasp at my sleeve. “But he must have.”

“Monsieur, we have come here tonight because we believe there has been a mistake.” I gently tugged my sister’s wrist to get her moving again.

“And what makes you say that?” the governor asked, mouth flicked up in a smirk. “I don’t expect you to understand because you don’t work closely with criminals like I do, but this is simply what his type of people do. They are not of French blood, so they have no qualms with breaking French laws and stealing French money and harming innocent Frenchmen. Over half the prisoners here share a similar heritage and skin color to your family’s ward.”

His snide expression stirred something angry and bitter inside me. I shouldn't have expected the governor to be different from the rest of polite society.  “Yes, and most likely those men were arrested under false pretenses just as Étienne was,” I snapped, knowing I should keep my mouth shut but finding it impossible to do so. “Because blaming people who look different is always the easy way out, isn’t it?”

The governor stopped mid-stride, pivoting on his heel to face me. “If you believe that all to be true then pray tell, Monsieur d’Aumont, why did he confess?”

“He did what?” My shoe connected hard with a loose cobblestone, and I tumbled forward, grabbing onto the back of my sister’s dress to keep myself upright. I could only imagine her face, the horror upon it, the realization all our questioning and hoping and planning was for naught. But there was no possible way the governor was telling the truth. There was no way my brother was a murderer.

“I believe I made myself clear the first time,” the governor said. “We brought Étienne d’Aumont in front of a judge for questioning. He swore an oath and confessed to the crime.”

Though I heard everything the governor said, none of the words made any sense. My mind scrambled, searching for the last memories I had of Étienne the night of the party. He’d promised to join me in the library, and I asked him to bring along a plate of croquettes when he did. He laughed, agreed to bring croquettes, and turned to disappear into the crowd.

There wasn’t a single thing off about our exchange. No difference in his expression or tone of voice. No oddity in his gestures or movements. Nothing at all to indicate he was about to end someone’s life.

Before I had the chance to say as much, Renée gasped. Madeleine watched the scene, pale hand pressed over her mouth. “Monsieur, I’m sure there was a reason he felt the need to confess,” Renée said. “Perhaps he was pressured, or there was an extenuating circumstance. If you have a trial—”

“There is no need for a trial, mademoiselle, when he has already confessed. That is the law.”

She blinked once, confusion washing over her face. “But there has to be a trial.”

“Not if the guilty party confesses to the crime while in front of a judge, which Étienne d’Aumont has already done.”

“We have money!” I blurted. I had no plan, no purpose for the claim, but I had to think of something—anything—to fix this terrible mistake. “We can pay for his release. We may not be in favor at court now, but the d’Aumont family has been nobility for centuries. Surely that must count for something.”

Monsieur de Launay sniffed. “You may be nobility, but Étienne d’Aumont is not. Even if he were nobility, the king himself ordered the arrest, and a confession has been made. It is done.”

“But—” It couldn’t be done. This quickly. With us powerless to stop it. Perhaps if I asked my brother what truly happened, we could get it all straightened out. “Could we at least speak with him? He’s here, is he not?”

The prison governor peered at me, arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t answer.

“Monsieur de Launay,” Madeleine spoke up, “I believe it would be proper to allow the d’Aumonts to speak with their brother. At least, I know my father would think so. And if I’m correct, you are in his debt.”

The governor remained silent for a few moments, jaw clenched. Then he sighed, gesturing to the massive door behind him with a flick of his head. “Étienne d’Aumont is in the interrogation room, waiting to be transferred to his chamber. You may briefly speak with him there. I will send a guard to watch over your sister and Mademoiselle de Froix while we are away.”

The realization of his words hit a second too late, after I’d already nodded and started to trail behind him. Then I froze, the back of my neck growing warm with anticipation. “Wait⁠⁠—”

“Monsieur,” Renée cut in, “you don’t truly intend to leave me out here?”

“I do, mademoiselle,” the governor said. “Speaking with a criminal in the interrogation room is no practice for a respectable lady.”

“Étienne isn’t a criminal!” she yelled. “He’s my brother!”

“Monsieur, I assure you my sister isn’t one to scare easily,” I said, my voice pitching to a near wail. “She’ll be fine in the interrogation room. Please, allow her to come along.” Please allow her to hold me up as my fear swallows me whole. While Renée didn’t scare easily, I most certainly did, and I was almost positive I couldn’t go through with this on my own.

My pleas seemed to do nothing but aggravate the governor, for he stuck out an accusatory finger, waving it between the both of us. “You two may have forgotten I am doing you an immeasurable favor in allowing you to speak with Étienne d’Aumont. I am in debt to Mademoiselle de Froix’s father, the vicomte, and that is why I agreed to this. But I am finding it increasingly difficult to continue with my decision.”

I shoved my hands into my pockets, gripping at my thighs. This is for Étienne, I had to remind myself. It’s all scary and strange and you don’t have the slightest idea what to do, but this is for your brother, goddammit, and you love him. Try to be brave for once in your life.

“Fine,” I said at last, “I’ll go with you.”

The governor didn’t bother to respond. He turned without waiting to see if I followed, flung open the iron doors leading to the Bastille, and stepped into the near black hallway. I shuffled after, head hung low in equal parts shame and nervousness, not daring to lift it while we weaved our way through a series of narrow corridors, thick with heat and quiet as the deceased. I didn’t look upward even after another door was shoved open, and we entered a cramped room lit by a few flickering torches. At least, not until a familiar voice broke the silence.

“Olivier?”

My head shot up, and at the back of the room, eyes wide with shock, was Étienne.