Page 13 of The Darkest Oath

Rollant travelednorth to Le Marais after gaining information from the crowded streets of Bastille and Saint-Jacques-la-Boucherie. Faubourg Saint-Antoine had given him a clear sense of unrest. He moved deliberately between the neighboring districts, listening and observing craftsmen, merchants, and dockworkers along the Seine. Each person gave a new perspective, but the same complaints were on every tongue, and the same bitterness was etched on every face. Unfounded rumors were prevalent, such as hatred toward the Queen, who spent lavishly, though Rollant knew the opposite to be true. The king would hear it all from his lips.

Yet beneath his disciplined exterior, a quiet desire nagged at him. A fortnight was quickly expiring, and the residents of Faubourg Saint-Antoine would again meet atAu Pain Roux. He did not need to return, as he already knew the sentiments of the neighborhood, but thoroughness was his nature. His visit toAu Pain Rouxhad been his first day out of his Charonne home, and it was likely there were pieces he did not notice. He would need to scour the streets again and perhaps find Élise in the crowd.

No.

He would not search for Élise, though he would still greet her if he happened upon her. Otherwise, he would forget her.

But as he moved through the streets of Le Marais, her smile flickered in the corners of his mind. As bakers and merchants argued over the price of bread, her porcelain face and fiery eyes made his heart beat faster. Even the scent of fresh bread, warm and rich in the evening air, failed to drive her away.

“She is only an exceptional speaker,” he muttered and tried to focus on the rose Amée had given him. He attempted to see his late wife’s face, but it was only a blur. It seemed that the sorceress had stripped him of holding his love in his memories, or perhaps it was just a machination of time. No one had taken residence in his thoughts like Élise had since Amée and Cateline and the traitor Arnoul. He thought he had fortified his mind well enough, but it seemed the one conversation with Élise had fractured his fortress.

The streets began to crowd as the night took the sky. He passed by slowly, listening to each meeting place.

“There is no food! They hoard it at the palace!”

“The king squanders our taxes!”

“The Queen is the ruin of this country, and the King follows behind her like a dog!”

The same sentiments—he’d heard it all before. He studied the men and women in attendance—furrowed brows, bared teeth, scrawny appearances. Élise was right. He stood out as well-nourished. He shook his head.

“Stop thinking about Élise,” he muttered.

The lamplighters walked the streets, lighting the oil lamp lights. Taxes paid for them. The Sun King made sure Paris would be a city of light, yet in all its glory, it sat on a foundation of decay and rot—where hunger eroded peace and rage simmered around every corner. The Sun King’s city of light had become a city of shadows. Though he despised thinking of Élise another time, he knew she was right yet again. The people were all being primed for something greater than themselves. His eyes were unclouded as he stood in the street listening to the grievances. Usually, he would be numb to it all, but Élise stirred within him that which had long been dormant. His feet kept walking, one after another, as he pondered. It was more than just her resemblance to Amée, or least, what he remembered of Amée. Élise had said something unique in her speech at the bakery: “We let them.”

Out of all the meetings and disgruntled people, no one had yet said anything about the people’s responsibility. The finger had always been pointed toward the crown, but Élise pointed the finger to the people. It had given him pause then and every night since. She had the intelligence of a true advisor; too bad she would never see the King’s Cabinet. Perhaps she could have stirred the king to action and guided him in his failings.

A screaming woman, mad at the injustice of her world, took his attention for a moment. He bit his lip in thought. Maybe the king was too detached, too far removed, for too long, to have any real connection to the people he governed. In the gap, rumors and falsehoods burgeoned from the dark soil of despair.

The sharp night winds lost the sun’s warmth, and Rollant shoved his hands in his pockets as he returned to the inn, for which he paid for a room earlier in the day. The innkeeper was a royalist who was more than willing to offer a room for the king’s secret guard. Three familiar men were down the street from the entrance to the inn. They had been following him ever since the night atAu Pain Roux. He wondered if Élise had sent them or if they had come of their own free will.

Regardless, he did not acknowledge them as he passed by and entered the inn, leaving him the upper hand should anything occur.

In the morning, he had planned to go to his Charonne home to collect his belongings and return to the king early with more information than needed. However, as he gazed out his tiny rented room’s window at the oil lamp-lit streets, all he could think of was Élise walking toward him under the swaying warm light.

Finally, he said aloud, “I will go back toAu Pain Rouxfirst and ensure I did not miss any vital information.“ He slumped on the uncomfortable bed and leaned back with his hands behind his head against the dumpy pillow.

“And seeing Élise one last time will assure me that I must walk away from her and put her out of my mind.” He closed his eyes. “It will confirm that Élise is a temporary, fleeting distraction. I will reassure myself no true desire lingers, and if I can’t put her out of my mind, then well, it’s because of her speech, nothing more.”

It had been a long fortnight, too much walking and insufficient food. He drifted off to sleep, murmuring, “And it is not like I could ever care for her or else condemn her to the fate of the sorceress’ curse should I ever hold her.”

No, he had an oath to uphold for all eternity, and there was no room for anyone except Amée to be his companion. Amée’s memory was sacred. He would never betray her memory, though the burn of not clearly remembering her face stabbed his heart. She alone had earned the right to stay with him. Élise had not.

CHAPTER7

The Path of Longing

FAUBOURG SAINT-ANTOINE, PARIS, MARCH 1788

The wooden signwithAu Pain Rouxburned into its worn surface swayed in the midday breeze. Rollant walked past the entrance while glancing inside. He saw men but no Élise, so he kept on walking. She could be anywhere in the district. Just because she had spoken in the bakery didn’t mean she lived there.

But he wasn’t there for Élise, he reminded himself. He adjusted his coat and pressed onward, taking the sharp corner onto Rue de Charonne, slowing his gait and taking in the townspeople. This part of the city needed a good cleaning. The dirt and grime on the streets had not been apparent at night, but the sunlight did not hide the stains on the stones. People hustled back and forth across the street. Heated haggling stung his eardrums. It was much different than the palace filled with whispers. He stood a head above others, or perhaps it was how he walked—fully upright. The others slumped over from burdens as if too tired or too weak, too thin, to afford the energy to pull back their shoulders in the hustle of life. These people were suffering, and he would make sure the king knew of it. Just as he resolved he had seen enough, a red scarf caught his eye.

Élise.

There she was, handing a small chunk of bread to a group of children. Their hands grabbed at her skirt and arms. One pulled her down by the hair to kiss her cheek. Her laugh echoed down the street as a hope-filled beacon in a sea of bitterness. A corner of Rollant’s lips turned up at the sound of its crystal ring.

He trailed her for a while, observing her hand out chunks of bread to the elderly, the widowed, and, more assumedly, orphans. The small act of sharing food in the middle of a hunger crisis softened his hardened heart. Most would hoard or price-gouge the poor. Generosity was usually the first casualty of scarcity. But perhaps there was some good left in the world. Or, he reconsidered his grand notions for Élise’s motivations. These people could have paid for the bread in advance, and she was simply making deliveries. Maybe she worked at the bakery and sold small pieces of bread for an overpriced amount to those who could not go to the bakery. His lips thinned. It was most likely the latter. From his experiences over the centuries, selfishness won whenever people became hungry to the point of violence.

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