Mothers profess to love all their daughters equally. But children – as is often the case – know better, and Brigitte LaRoux had known for as long as she could remember that her mother did not love her.
This was a silent understanding, kept between the two of them, and the matter had never been openly discussed. But, as ever, gestures revealed what words did not: A look of genuine reproach, glimpsed before it could be concealed, whenever a drink was spilled, or a title was forgotten, or a bow was either too deep, or not deep enough; a cutting remark, offered across the dining room table, only to be laughed-off as a jest, but which bore the weight of truth; a maternal embrace that was just a bit too perfunctory, a bit too short – a gesture necessitated by custom, rather than by affection.
Brigitte had always assumed that the problem was that she took after her father. The Comte had been a gentle man, a quiet man, fond of music, and books. He had loved Brigitte – of this she was certain – and he had been available to her in a way that the Comtesse’s myriad responsibilities would have rendered impossible, even had she desired such intimacy – which, clearly, she had not.
On the day that her father had died, Brigitte had wept so piteously that she had been banished to her room, lest she make a display of herself in front of the formal mourners. Once upstairs, she had tried to throw herself from a third story window – she had opened the grate, and had even climbed up onto the transom – and she might have succeeded, had her sister Elise not pulled her back into the room, and held her in her arms for hours until there were no tears left to cry.
Her mother had never loved Elise, either, Brigitte knew. But the nature of their offenses had been different, for Elise had been doubly-damned: Once by birth, which had cursed her with ghostly hair and pink eyes – “like a white mouse,” the Comtesse had despaired – and skin so pale that it could not bear the sun, and then once again by her gift for sorcery.
Elise could hardly have been blamed for the defects of her body, and, had that been her sole crime, she might, in time, have been forgiven. But her covert practice of magic had been her own choice, and, in her mother’s eyes, it was an unforgivable sin. As a consequence, Elise’s name had not been spoken aloud within the walls of the chateau since the day of her exile.
Brigitte’s own failings, she suspected, were more straightforward – she was, put simply, a disappointment.
Or, put differently, Brigitte’s crime was that she was not Margot. For Margot had taken after her mother, and the Comtesse had loved Margot with an intensity that bordered on obsession.
Brigitte had understood why: With her fair looks, and her flair for conversation, and her disarming laugh, Margot had been easy to love.
So it was Margot who had been groomed to lead since she was old enough to speak. Margot who had been taught to dance, to ride, to fence, to rule. Margot who had presided over fairs, and festivals, and civic events of all kinds. Margot who – even as a young woman – had commanded the love of the people almost without seeming to try.
But it was Margot who had died. And her mother – stricken by grief more than by illness – had followed soon after, leaving Brigitte to rule in their place.
On her deathbed, the Comtesse had kissed her youngest daughter’s hand – but not held it – and had offered her first and only lesson in governing.
“You must rule the peasants as a mother rules a child,” the Comtesse had said, between whistling, pneumonic breaths. “You must offer them protection, and, in return, they must offer you obedience. Be just, and be fair, but be strict as well, and do not spare the rod – your word must be law, and you must brook no dissent. For what is true for families is true for cities as well: If a child loses respect for her mother, disrespect will turn to defiance, and defiance will lead to anarchy.”
“But, Maman,” Brigitte had asked, as the old Comtesse’s breathing began to fail, “how do I get the people to love me?”
The Comtesse had asked her: “Why should you care if you are loved?”
And then she had died.
Thus, with her mother’s final words to her still echoing in her ears, Brigitte LaRoux had become the twenty-seventh Comtesse of Mont-sur-Mer.
Standing at the head of her mother’s funeral procession had been the first time that Brigitte was called upon to address the entire village, and she had found the weight of that occasion almost too heavy to bear. Seeing hundreds of faces turned towards her, their eyes fixed on hers, their quiet attention hanging on her every word, Brigitte had not known what to say.
Should she offer her people wisdom? Solace? Reassurance?
Brigitte did not know how to offer any of those things.
In that moment, Brigitte had not felt as though she were a stern-but-just mother. She had felt very much as though she herself were still a child. A strange tightness had gripped her chest – fear, she thought, made manifest – and she had excused herself after only the briefest of remarks.
Now, as she ascended the steps to the scaffold at the foot of the village bell tower, Brigitte LaRoux found herself face-to-face with the people of her town for only the second time since becoming their Comtesse. And, as she looked out across the gathered crowd, she felt that terrible tightness in her chest come rushing back.
On the day of the funeral, the mood among the crowd had been somber, and grave. But, now, as Brigitte rose to speak, there was tension in the air, too – palpable tension, and fear.
Fear hung over the square like a pall, and its effects were visible in the way that parents clutched their children, the way that people bunched together into small groups and whispered anxiously, the way that they shifted their weight from foot-to-foot, even as they clasped their hats to their chests, and stared deferentially at the ground. The knots of purple-clad soldiers interspersed among the crowd – most with stoic expressions on their faces, many with hands resting on their sword hilts – did little to ease the sense of doom that charged the air like static before a lightning storm. Nor did the looming specter of the gallows, whose noose swung idly in the breeze just behind Brigitte.
The Comtesse was clearing her throat when she felt a hand brush against her back, and she nearly jumped from the shock of the unexpected contact. Brigitte’s startled reaction prompted a small smile from the Vicomtesse Perrine Labelle, who had evidently ascended to the platform while Brigitte had been lost in her memory, and had moved to stand next to the younger noble.
“A thousand pardons, my dear Comtesse,” the Vicomtesse said, and she executed a textbook bow, by way of apology.
Not too deep, Brigitte thought, but just deep enough.
“I had not realized you were there,” Brigitte managed to stammer.
“The fault is mine. I should have asked your permission before rising to join you, but I sensed that you felt some nervousness, and I had hoped that my presence nearby might reassure you.” Perrine Labelle’s smile widened, and Brigitte felt herself shiver. “Furthermore, as Grand Magistrate, it is only fitting that I should be by your side as you deliver the proclamation.”
Brigitte could only muster a nod.
“Have no fear, my dear Comtesse,” Perrine Labelle said, giving Brigitte a small pat on the back. “You must simply recite the lines I have prepared for you. Then it will all be over, and you may retire to the edge of the stage. I have had a seat prepared for you, directly next to mine.”
Brigitte nodded again, then swallowed. She took a small step to one side, creating some distance between herself and the Vicomtesse, under the pretext of straightening her posture.
Then she opened her mouth, and she heard herself begin to speak.
“People of Mont-sur-Mer,” Brigitte said, hating the way that her voice quavered as it carried across the square, “I stand before you today as your Comtesse, and your rightful ruler, to inform you that a foul treason now stalks our lands.” Pausing for a moment to steady her nerves, Brigitte drew a great breath. “I know that you are loyal,” she said, deviating from the script that Perrine Labelle had given her. “I know that you love your Baroness, and that you love your Queen, as do I. There is not a woman among you for whom I would not vouchsafe with my own life.”
Brigitte risked a glance to her side, where the Grand Magistrate continued to smile, but shot her a pointed look in reply. Feeling the tightness growing inside her chest, the Comtesse turned back towards the square, and continued:
“Sadly, I have today been presented with proof that there are outsiders in our city who harbor treason in their hearts. Chief among them is the infamous Henri le Douce – he is a murderer, a traitor, and the slayer of our beloved Baron. Until he and his accomplices in this unspeakable evil are caught, no one among us is safe. Therefore…”
Looking down, Brigitte hesitated. She hesitated for so long that the Vicomtesse’s clerk, who had been hurriedly transcribing Brigitte’s remarks until that point, stopped writing. The clerk’s pen hovered expectantly in the air above her record of the proceedings, and she was staring up at the Comtesse, along with every other soul in the square.
“Therefore?” Perrine Labelle prompted, whispering quietly through gritted teeth.
“Therefore,” Brigitte continued, tripping slightly over the word, so that she had to repeat herself. “Therefore, I am declaring a state of martial law in the city of Mont-sur-Mer, and I am hereby naming the Vicomtesse Perrine Labelle – a duly-appointed representative of her noble excellency, the Baroness, and the Grand Magistrate of her courts – to serve as executrix of the city until further notice. I afford her any and all such powers as she requires to bring all traitors among us to justice, and to see that they are properly punished.”
Brigitte looked out across the crowd, which seemed to have frozen in place. No one moved – even the wind did not dare to flutter the banners. The square had fallen so silent, it would have been possible to hear a pin drop.
“Vive la Reine,” Brigitte concluded, drawing a muttered chorus of replies.
Then, feeling as though she had just abrogated a sacred trust, the Comtesse Brigitte LaRoux walked silently to the chair that had been placed for her at the edge of the platform. She sat down just in time to watch the clerk notarizing her proclamation with a series of official stamps.
“You did well, Madame,” whispered Sir Ruth, who stood quietly behind the Comtesse’s chair, with her arms clasped behind her back. “As well as could be expected.”
“Not well enough, I fear,” Brigitte whispered back, pressing her palms against her forehead, and squeezing her eyes shut. “What happens now?”
“The Vicomtesse is about to speak.”
Brigitte LaRoux opened her eyes to stare at the woman to whom she had surrendered her city, and who now stood alone at the front of the platform.
“Thank you, Madame la Comtesse,” Perrine Labelle said, taking a step to one side, so that she occupied the spot where Brigitte had just stood. “I am humbled that you have entrusted me with so great a responsibility, and I give you my most solemn vow that the cause of justice will be served here today.”
The Vicomtesse bowed in Brigitte’s direction, before turning back to face the wary villagers.
“Now, where is the Postmistress?” she asked, in a voice that carried over the square. “If you are here, step forward.”
A woman in a dark blue postal uniform, wearing a three-cornered hat with a red ribbon around its brim, made her way solemnly to the front of the crowd.
“I am the Postmistress, Madame,” she said, removing her hat in a gesture of respect.
“Very good,” the Vicomtesse said. “Tell me, Postmistress, what is your name?”
“Marie, Madame. Marie Duvall.”
“Very good,” the Vicomtesse repeated, before motioning to her clerk, who appeared to record the Postmistress’s name. “Tell me, Marie Duvall, how accurate is your register of addresses?”
“Very accurate, Madame,” the Postmistress replied, a note of pride in her voice. “It is complete, and it is accurate.”
“Excellent,” Perrine Labelle said. “Go to the post office, then, and return with your register. Immediately.”
“Yes, Madame,” the Postmistress said, before replacing her hat, and vanishing back into the crowd with as much haste as decorum would permit.
As everyone waited for the Postmistress’s return, the silence that descended over the crowd was so heavy that Brigitte felt as though she could cut it with a knife. Finally, after minutes that felt like hours, the crowd again parted to make way for the blue-uniformed woman, who approached the foot of the scaffold cradling a thick, leather-bound book in her arms.
“Please be so good as to give that to my clerk,” the Vicomtesse said, indicating the woman who sat behind a small table at the base of the scaffold, with reams upon reams of official papers and parchments spread out before her.
With a deep bow, the Postmistress handed the town’s register of names and addresses to the clerk, who accepted it with a perfunctory nod. Then the Postmistress turned, and looked as though she were going to retreat back into the anonymity of the crowd, when the Vicomtesse’s voice froze her in mid-step.
“A moment, please,” Perrine Labelle said to the retreating functionary. “You are not dismissed. I have a question to ask you.”
Ashen-faced, the Postmistress turned around, and bowed hurriedly in the Vicomtesse’s direction.
“I am sorry, Madame,” she stammered, once again removing her hat. “I beg your forgiveness. Please, ask me anything you will.”
“As I said, I have but one question,” the Vicomtesse said, stepping forward to the edge of the platform, so that she loomed directly over the Postmistress. Crossing her arms in front of her chest, she looked down at the cowering woman, and she asked: “Where is Vocal Henri?”
A look of non-comprehension passed over the Postmistress’s face.
“Madame, I do not know,” she managed to stammer.
“I do not believe you,” Perrine Labelle said, drawing a visible flinch from the stunned functionary. The Vicomtesse raised her hand, and, in an instant, a circle of soldiers had materialized behind the Postmistress, separating her from the remainder of the assembled village, and cutting-off any avenues by which she might try to flee.
“Madame, I do not understand,” the woman said, her voice audibly shaking, her knees visibly so, as a pair of soldiers took hold of her by the shoulders.
“It is simple enough,” Perrine Labelle replied, with a little shrug of her shoulders. “You are the Postmistress of this town. You know every citizen by face, by name, by address. You deliver the post to them each day. You know all of their comings and goings.” The Vicomtesse waved a hand idly in the air. “Surely, if anyone in this city would know where an outsider like Henri le Douce would be hiding, it would be you.” Then the Vicomtesse’s voice turned cold. “So, I ask you again: Where is Vocal Henri?”
The Postmistress was silent. Then, for a moment, she shook so terribly that it seemed as though the soldiers who gripped her shoulders would have to hold her upright. Finally, in a voice that cracked as she began to sob, she cried: “Madame, I beg you – I know nothing!”
Perrine Labelle turned to her clerk. “What was this woman’s name, again?”
The clerk consulted her records. “Marie Duvall, Madame.”
The Vicomtesse turned back to the crying woman, and she smiled.
“Marie Duvall,” she said, “I find you guilty of sedition, of conspiring to pervert the cause of justice, and of high treason. For your crimes, I sentence you to hang from the neck until you are dead.”
The Grand Magistrate gestured to the soldiers, who lifted the Postmistress up off her feet and began to carry her, kicking and screaming, up the steps to the gallows.
Suddenly, the entire square seemed to erupt. Voices cried out, women yelled, children screamed. Throughout the crowd, steel scraped across steel as soldiers drew their swords, and levelled their blades at the surrounding peasants. Atop the platform, Brigitte LaRoux tried to stand, but a pair of strong hands gripped her by the arms, and held her in her seat.
“You must stay seated, Madame,” Sir Ruth whispered urgently in the Comtesse’s ear. “It is for your own safety.”
“Let go of me!” Brigitte cried, trying but failing to squirm free from the armored woman’s grip. “My safety be damned – I command you!”
“Please forgive me, Madame,” came the chevalier’s reply, heavy with guilt. “It is for your own safety.”
The knight relaxed her grip on Brigitte just slightly, and the Comtesse turned in her seat to see that fully a dozen soldiers had materialized on the platform behind her, with swords in their hands. The Vicomtesse’s stone-faced chevalier, Sir Lisette, stood at their center, and was holding a drawn blade close to Sir Ruth’s throat.
“Release her!” Brigitte demanded, her heart pounding inside her chest. “At once!”
“I do not understand your request, Madame,” the Vicomtesse’s chevalier said, her voice cold. “We are merely here to protect you.”
That comment drew a hollow laugh from Brigitte. Then the Comtesse turned back around to look out across the square, which seemed to be on the verge of a riot.
Suddenly, the Grand Magistrate’s voice boomed above the rising din.
“Be advised than any woman or man who so much as lays a hand on one of my soldiers will be hanged as a conspirator,” the Vicomtesse declared, and her admonition appeared to give the crowd pause, because, after a few moments, the shouting and screaming of the gathered villagers gave way to a low, rolling murmur, which descended to almost complete silence as the soldiers finally managed to get the struggling Postmistress into position beneath the swinging noose.
“People of Mont-sur-Mer,” Perrine Labelle said, “for so long as you will harbor traitors in your midst, you are all guilty of treason. But I offer you a chance for absolution. If you love your Comtesse, then I invite you to step forward, and to denounce the traitors among you. Bring me this Vocal Henri, and I will show you mercy.”
The Vicomtesse paused for a moment, as though waiting for the villagers to produce Henri le Douce in chains. When no such event transpired, the Grand Magistrate merely nodded her head.
“Very well,” she said. “If you persist in condoning treason, then I shall be forced to hang one citizen of this town every hour, on the hour, from now until such time as the traitors I seek are brought before me.”
“You cannot do that!” Brigitte cried out, and again tried to rise, only to feel Sir Ruth holding her in place. “You cannot simply condemn my people to hang! They are innocent!”
“My dear Comtesse,” Perrine Labelle said, with a sympathetic nod of her head, “there are no innocents in Mont-sur-Mer. That you cannot see this is a credit to your kind heart, but also the reason why it has fallen to me to do what must be done. And, as for choosing whom to hang? My clerk shall draw the names from your register.” The Vicomtesse’s smile widened, and her grey eyes flashed. “I can think of no fairer method than that. As your Postmistress has said, the register is accurate, and complete.”
Then the Vicomtesse motioned to her soldiers, who slipped the noose around the Postmistress’s neck.
“Have you ever witnessed a hanging before, my dear Comtesse?” Perrine Labelle asked. She walked across the platform, and seated herself atop the chair next to Brigitte’s.
Brigitte said nothing. She just stared at the gray-eyed woman in furious disbelief.
The Vicomtesse traced her hand across the side of the Comtesse’s neck, causing Brigitte to recoil in horror.
“Come now, my dear – there is no cause for that,” Perrine Labelle said, smiling. “If this is truly your first time, then you are in for a genuine treat.” Her voice dropped to a sadistic purr – like a razor cutting silk – and she whispered softly into Brigitte’s ear. “A word of advice, my dear – watch her eyes, as she dangles. I believe you may find the experience quite stimulating.”
Before Brigitte could reply, the town bell tolled above their heads, sounding the hour.
Brigitte LaRoux closed her eyes tight as she heard the lever being pulled.
* * *
The Postmistress took forever to die.
At least, that was how it felt to Henri le Douce, who stood, transfixed, before the parlor window, and peered from beneath the corner of the drapes as he watched the woman hang.
Henri had seen a hanging once before – as a young boy, he and some friends had snuck into the city, thinking that it might be exciting, to watch a thief die – and his chief memory was of the moment when the condemned man had fallen through the scaffolding – how the rope had snapped taut, how his body had come to an abrupt stop, how his neck had broken, and his head had lolled to one side. Henri could still recall the sense of horror he had felt then, as he watched the dead man’s body swing lazily back and forth – no longer alive, no longer a man, really – just so much dead weight, hanging at the end of a rope.
It had been terrible, like something out of a nightmare. But at least it had been over quickly. And Henri had vowed never to witness a hanging again.
But here he was. And, as he watched the Postmistress fall, he felt as though he were going to be sick. Because, this time, when the rope snapped taut, the Postmistress’s neck did not break, and her body did not go limp.
Instead, she fought terribly as she hung. Her hands clawed at the noose around her neck, her feet kicked futilely at the empty air beneath her, and her whole body spasmed, as she swung beneath the gallows, struggling, thrashing, like a fish, hooked and dying, on the end of a line.
“Her neck did not break,” Henri whispered, feeling a chill come over his body, as he watched the Postmistress swing. “There must be a fault in the mechanism.”
“There is no fault in the mechanism,” Aurélie said quietly. She was standing next to him, but she did not watch. She had turned her back to the window as soon as the bell had tolled. “The mechanism is performing exactly to specification.”
“How can you tell?” Henri asked.
“I have seen it before,” Aurélie said.
“Why doesn’t someone cut her down?” Henri asked. The Postmistress’s flailing was growing weaker, now. Her kicks were coming further and further apart, and one of her arms had fallen limply to her side. “To leave her to struggle like this, it is sick, grotesque.”
“Yes,” Aurélie said. “It is.”
Her voice sounded as cold as Henri felt.
Finally, after what seemed to Henri like an eternity, the Postmistress stopped moving. Her feet kicked their last, and then she was still.
Just so much dead weight, Henri thought, hanging at the end of a rope.
Henri let the corner of the drape fall from his hand, and he took a shuffling step back, away from the window. A sense of revulsion washed over him, then, and he felt bile rise suddenly in his throat.
He hated himself, for having watched an innocent woman die, and having done nothing.
He had not wanted to watch. He had wanted to look away. But, in the moment, he had found that he could not. A sort of morbid fascination had gripped him, and had held him firm until the end.
Henri looked across the room at Aurélie, who stood, stone-faced, in front of the fireplace.
“Why didn’t you watch?” Henri asked her. He felt unsteady, and he wanted her to say something – anything – that might absolve him. “How did you look away?”
“It is as I told you,” she said, without returning his gaze. “I have seen it before.”
Henri walked to the sideboard, and, opening the drawer, he searched briefly inside, hoping that there might be an unopened bottle of brandy.
There was not.
Leaning back against the wall, Henri put his head in his hands, and he sank, slowly, down to his knees.
“That woman,” he said, speaking quietly. “Did you know her?”
Peering out from between his fingers, he saw Aurélie shake her head.
“No,” she said. “She is a stranger to me.”
“To me, too,” Henri said. “But she died because of me. She died in my name.”
“She was not the first,” Aurélie said. “Goddess willing, she will not be the last.”
Henri looked up at her.
“Anything for the cause?”
Aurélie glanced down at him.
“Whatever it takes,” she said.
“How is this so easy for you?” Henri said. There was an edge in his voice, now. “I feel like I want to scream. I want to put my fist through the wall. But you?” Looking at her, he had to shake his head. “You don’t seem to feel a thing.”
“Maybe not,” Aurélie said.
She looked away, and turned her face up, to stare at the ceiling.
“Or maybe I just hide it better than most.”
Henri was still for a moment. Then he exhaled a breath he had not realized he had been holding, and he nodded his head.
“Maybe,” he said.
And the two of them waited together in silence until Beatrix returned.
Beatrix had gone out into the square when the village had been summoned, so that she could observe the situation, and report back about what was said. At the time, this had seemed to Henri to be an extraordinary risk – for all her skill at deflecting attention, Beatrix was, after all, a stranger in the village, and it seemed impossible that her presence in the crowd would not be remarked upon. When the scout had proposed the plan, Henri had expected Aurélie to forbid her from going. But, to Henri’s surprise, Aurélie Cerveau had considered the scout’s request for a silent, tense moment, before nodding her assent, and tasking Beatrix with attempting to memorize the positions of the troops in the main square, provided she could do so while also following the proceedings, and not calling undue attention to herself.
It had seemed, to Henri, like a death sentence. And, now, as he reflected upon it, he heard Aurélie’s words in his head once more: “Whatever it takes.”
But Beatrix had returned. Alive, and, in so far as anyone could tell, unremarked upon. Henri could not believe it. She must have been a ghost.
He was trying to choose the appropriate compliment to pay to the scout, but Aurélie spoke before he could.
“Please report, citizen Beatrix,” she said, and it was all that she said. It left Henri feeling cold.
But, if Beatrix was at all troubled by Aurélie’s lack of sentiment, she gave no sign. Instead, she executed a perfect salute in Henri’s direction, and she gave her report.
What Beatrix said, though, left Henri trembling.
“She cannot mean it,” Henri said to Aurélie, after Beatrix had relayed the Vicomtesse’s decree. “She cannot just hang the people of this village – one-by-one, with no evidence at all, for no crime at all! She can’t. She just…” Henri shook his head, in disbelief. “She just can’t.”
“She can,” Aurélie said. “And she will.”
“The whole village?”
“Yes.”
“One-by-one?”
“Yes.”
“On the luck of the draw?”
“Yes,” Aurélie said. “If it pleases her to do so, then yes.” Her eyes hardened. “And I think it will please her very much indeed.”
“It is cruel.” Henri shook his head again, and wished desperately for another apple brandy. “It is cruel beyond belief.”
“And so is she. Which is why we must take her at her word.”
Henri was silent. He wiped his brow, and was surprised to find it coated in a layer of cold sweat.
“Then what do we do?”
“We do nothing.” Aurélie crossed to the window, and glanced discretely through the blinds. “We wait for nightfall, and we make good our escape, just as we have planned.”
Henri blinked in astonishment.
“And how many will die, between now and then?” he asked.
Aurélie glanced out the window a second time.
“It is still some hours from midday,” she said, “and, at this time of year, the sun does not set until late. So, at my best guess?” She shrugged her shoulders, and seemed to do some quick mental arithmetic. “I would say the bell will chime at least nine more times before nightfall.”
Henri could not believe what he was hearing.
“So I will have nine more deaths on my conscience?” he said.
“At least nine, yes,” Aurélie said. “Potentially more, if the villagers resist, or if Perrine Labelle grows bored with her own game.”
“And you are content to just allow this to happen?”
Aurélie was silent for a moment. When she spoke, she did not turn around.
“Citizen Beatrix,” she said, addressing her words to the scout, “would you be so good as to find our gracious hosts, and escort them up to the attic?” She waved a hand in the direction of the small kitchen, where the weaver and her husband had been waiting, under Patrice’s watchful eye. “I believe they would be safer upstairs, for the time being.”
“Yes, citizen Aurélie,” Beatrix said.
“And, perhaps, you would send citizen Remy downstairs, when you see him?”
“Yes, citizen Aurélie.”
Beatrix saluted one last time, before disappearing through the door.
Henri laughed a hollow laugh.
“You’ve a strange way of repaying kindness,” he said to Aurélie, after Beatrix had gone. “These people risk their necks for you, and you make them prisoners in their own home.”
“They will be safer this way,” Aurélie said, still not turning around.
“We will be safer, don’t you mean?”
“There is that, too.”
“You don’t trust them,” Henri said, and, again, he laughed. “They have shown us nothing but courage, and kindness, and you don’t trust them.”
“They are good people,” Aurélie said. “But they are frightened. And they are right to be frightened.” She sighed. “I have known good people to do terrible things, and with far less cause.”
“And what about you?” Henri asked. “What will you do, for your cause?”
Aurélie turned around, and she looked at him.
“I have never claimed to be a good person,” she said.
“And so you will do nothing,” Henri said. “You will do nothing, while, just outside this window, people will die.”
“And what would you have me do?” Aurélie said. There was an edge of frustration beneath her voice now, which had not been there before. “Tell me, Henri – what would you have me do?”
Henri was silent for a long time, before he made up his mind. Then he swallowed, and he spoke.
“Send me out,” he said.
“Out of the question,” Aurélie said.
“You heard what Beatrix told us,” Henri said. “Madame du Collet will hang the people of this town until they surrender me to her.” Henri stood upright, and straight, and, for a moment, he felt a courage that genuinely surprised him. “In that case, there is only one thing we can do. I must give myself up. I must give myself up, so that others may live.”
“No.”
“No?” Henri leveled a finger at her, which shook as he spoke. “You once asked me to do something good with my life – you dared me, practically! And, now that my chance has come, you tell me no?”
Aurélie pushed his finger aside. “No good will come of you surrendering yourself to Perrine Labelle,” she said.
“I could save nine lives! Perhaps more!”
“No.”
“No? Is that all you can say?”
“Henri, open your eyes!” Aurélie snapped at him, before stepping closer. “You could present yourself to Perrine Labelle on a silver tray, and tie the noose around your own neck, and you would not save one life!” She bore down on him. Her eyes were like ice, and her words were like knives. “Perrine Labelle will kill who it pleases her to kill, regardless of what you, or I, or anyone else does. That sentence was passed from the moment she set foot in this town. Death has come to Mont-sur-Mer – it carries the force of law, and wears only the finest silks.”
Henri tried to look away, but Aurélie would not let him.
“If I had a hundred women, then maybe – maybe – I could do something to prevent what is to come,” she said. “But I have no such force at my disposal. So, instead, the choice we are left with is simple. We can keep ourselves alive, and keep our cause alive, so that we might one day see justice done for those who will die here today.” Her eyes were locked to his. “Or we can join the ranks of the dead. And who will avenge them then, Henri? Who will avenge them then?”
Henri glanced at the door, then back at Aurélie, then back at the door again.
“And if I try to leave?” he asked.
“Then I will prevent you,” she said.
“By whatever means necessary?”
“By whatever means necessary.”
For a moment, Henri considered putting her words to the test. But he did not. Instead, he stalked back across the room, and he sat on the low settee, where he cradled his head in his hands.
“I hate this,” he said.
“So do I,” Aurélie said.
“I hate you,” he said.
“If that helps you? Then, by all means, do,” she said.
Henri was still trying to think of a suitable reply, when, outside, the bell tolled.
* * *
It was only as the citizens of her village were being put to death, one-by-one, that the Comtesse Brigitte LaRoux was reminded that she did not know their names.
Had she ever stopped before to reflect on this – and she was fairly certain that she had not – then, most probably, she would not have thought very much of it. After all, the villagers were peasants.
They were her peasants, to be sure – they were peasants to whom she owed a duty of care
But, still, they were peasants. How could she be expected to know them by name?
This had never bothered Brigitte LaRoux before.
Now, it did.
The first name to be called, after the bell had sounded, and the people of Mont-sur-Mer had once more assembled in the square – slowly, this time, in portentous silence, with their eyes cast downward, for fear of catching the gaze of a friend or neighbor who might be about to die upon the gallows – was that of Gustave DuMond.
After leafing casually through the town register, and picking an entry seemingly at random, the Vicomtesse’s clerk had announced the poor man’s name with a kind of banal officiousness, as though she were nothing more than a simple bureaucrat, summoning the next petitioner in a queue.
“Gustave DuMond,” she had said, without even bothering to look up from her record as she spoke. “Gustave DuMond, come forward, please.”
Gustave DuMond, it transpired, was a man of middle age, with a shuffling step, and a farmer’s tan, who, after a moment of interminable suspense, had made his way to the front of the crowd, where, after clearing his throat, and removing his hat, he had announced himself to his Comtesse.
“I am Gustave DuMond,” the man had said, with an almost impossible dignity, and he had bowed to Brigitte, who was so taken aback by the gesture that she had almost failed to acknowledge it.
After a startled second, the Comtesse had finally managed to nod her head at the bowing man, which granted him permission to rise. And, as he did, Brigitte tried to study his face, which was not familiar to her.
The Comtesse had wondered briefly if she had ever met Gustave DuMond before, and, if so, whether or not she could simply have forgotten about it. She did not want to think so, but, in truth, there was really no way of knowing.
Next, the man had turned, and had bowed again, this time to the Grand Magistrate, who looked down at him from the scaffold above.
“I am Gustave DuMond,” the man said.
“Gustave DuMond,” the Vicomtesse Perrine Labelle said, “you are hereby charged with sedition, high treason, and conspiracy to pervert the cause of justice.”
As the Grand Magistrate spoke, she would occasionally glance down at her clerk, who was scribbling furiously as the charges were read.
“Before rendering my verdict,” the Vicomtesse continued, turning back to the condemned man, “I have but one question for you: Where is Henri le Douce?”
Gustave DuMond cleared his throat.
“Madame, I do not know,” he said.
The Vicomtesse gave her head a curt, perfunctory nod.
“Very well,” she said. “Gustave DuMond, I find you guilty on all counts, and, for your crimes, I sentence you to hang from the neck, until you are dead.”
And, with those words, the Grand Magistrate’s cruel pantomime of justice had set into motion: A pair of armored soldiers took Gustave DuMond by the shoulders and led him up the stairs to the gallows. Another pair of women in black shrouds fitted the noose over his head. In the square below, the Vicomtesse’s clerk made a few, final notes on the parchment before her, which she then stamped with six separate stamps.
The Vicomtesse herself returned to her chair next to Brigitte, where she perched eagerly on the edge of her seat, and Brigitte could see the glimmer of anticipation in Perrine Labelle’s eyes as she raised a single finger into the air, then brought it swinging down.
Brigitte LaRoux covered her eyes as the trap door fell open. But that left her with no hands to cover her ears, and she heard every sound that Gustave DuMond made as he died.
There was a loud snap, followed by a startled, strangled gasp. Then a desperate, wet choking, that seemed to go on forever.
When the choking finally did fade away, it was replaced with a low, whistling wheeze, until, eventually, even that, too, fell silent, leaving only the creak of the rope as it swung from side to side.
Then, finally, silence.
Brigitte LaRoux opened her eyes and saw that the Grand Magistrate was sitting next to her, with flushed cheeks. Her breathing was short, and fast, and she had a terrible look of satisfaction on her face.
For the longest time, nobody spoke.
“You are dismissed,” the Vicomtesse eventually said to the silenced crowd. “This court will reconvene in one hour’s time, at which point your presence will again be required.”
And that was how the day went on, hour after agonizing hour.
The next peasant to be summoned to the gallows – a young man by the name of Jean Mireau – did not go nearly as stoically. When the bell tolled next, and it was his name that was called, Jean Mireau cried out, and tried to run. But he was tackled by a group of four soldiers before he could so much as flee the square, and the Vicomtesse’s armored women dragged him – kicking, and screaming, and shouting lamentations – to the foot of the gallows.
When the Vicomtesse asked him where Henri le Douce was, Jean Mireau did not even bother to answer her question. Instead, he assailed the Grand Magistrate with a stream of invective, followed by a redoubled effort to break free from his captors.
It did him no good, and Jean Mireau’s protests were silenced moments later, when he swung from the end of a rope.
The hour after that, it was the turn of a woman named Sofie Delamard to hang.
The hour after that, it was a Maxime D’Aubrey who took the long walk to the gallows.
When next the bell tolled, and an Antoine LaSalle was called, no one stepped forward to answer to that name. Looking genuinely aggrieved, the Vicomtesse dispatched a company of women to the address listed in the town register, and, when the soldiers returned, they brought with them an infirm man, who could barely walk – even with the aid of his stick – along with his wizened wife, who, although she looked as old as he, had to help bear her husband’s weight as he made his way through the crowd.
Perrine Labelle seemed to take special pleasure in watching Antoine LaSalle swing, Brigitte had noted.
Then, just as the dead man’s weeping wife had turned away, and made to return to her home, the Vicomtesse’s soldiers had blocked her path, and she hung, too.
It was only then that Brigitte LaRoux realized that, at some point during the day’s grisly proceedings, the soldiers who had been holding her and Sir Ruth hostage had faded back to the edge of the platform, where they had sheathed their weapons, and were keeping a respectful distance.
With a cold shiver, Brigitte understood why she had been let off of her leash: The Vicomtesse no longer feared that she might attempt to disrupt the proceedings. For the blood of her people was on Brigitte’s own hands, just as much as it was on the Vicomtesse’s.
The Comtesse had stood by, and had done nothing, as her people were led to their deaths. How would she resist now, when she was already complicit?
That realization was almost too much to bear. So, with Sir Ruth now standing behind her, like a comforting bulwark, Brigitte LaRoux had broken down, and begun sobbing into the folds of her gown.
It was useless to cry, Brigitte knew – and unbecoming. If her mother had been alive, she would have excoriated her for weeping in public. Such behavior, she knew, was not befitting a Comtesse.
In that moment, though, Brigitte LaRoux did not care, for she did not feel very much like a Comtesse. After all, a Comtesse’s first responsibility was to protect her people, and, on that score, Brigitte knew she had failed, and abjectly so.
So Brigitte did the only thing she could think of to do: she wept. And she was still weeping when the next hour struck, the bell tolled yet again, and one more name was called.
“Lili Magret,” the clerk announced, making a notation in her records. “Lili Magret, come forward, please.”
As Lili Magret’s name was read, an agonized wail erupted from somewhere deep in the crowd, and the rawness of that cry jolted Brigitte back to the present.
After quickly drying her tears on the sleeve of her gown, the Comtesse looked up, and she saw an ashen-faced mother being pushed to the front of the square, with a little girl – whom Brigitte took to be the woman’s terrified daughter – in tow.
“Lili Magret?” the Vicomtesse said to the woman, whom a trio of soldiers were positioning at the foot of the scaffold.
“No, Madame,” the woman said, shaking her head frantically. “I am Marjorie Magret.”
Then, reaching down, she wrapped her arms protectively around her young girl, who buried her face in her mother’s dress.
“Madame,” the woman continued, stammering, as she clutched the shaking girl tight, “Lili Magret is my daughter.”
The Grand Magistrate raised an eyebrow.
“Your daughter, can she speak?”
The woman nodded her head, slowly.
“Yes, Madame,” she said, with a tremble in her voice.
A smile appeared on the Vicomtesse’s face that made Brigitte’s blood run cold.
“Bring her up here, please,” the Vicomtesse said, motioning for her soldiers to usher both the panic-stricken mother and the terrified girl – who could not have been a day older than ten – up onto the platform.
One soldier took hold of the little girl’s arm, and, after prying her away from her mother’s leg, she half-walked, half-carried the girl over to where Perrine Labelle stood. Marjorie Magret looked as though she were going to protest, but the Vicomtesse silenced her with a single, wordless glance.
Then, kneeling down so that she was the same height as the quivering girl, Perrine Labelle placed one hand on the girl’s shoulder, and she ran her other hand through the little girl’s hair.
“Lili,” she said, in a voice that was suddenly soft, and sugared, “I have a question to ask you. And, if you love your mother, then I suggest that you answer me honestly, for it is very wicked to tell lies.” The Vicomtesse slid her hand beneath the little girl’s chin, directing the girl’s gaze up into her steel-gray eyes. “Do you understand, my dear?”
Lili – seemingly too terrified to even speak – merely nodded her head.
Perrine Labelle’s smile widened, and Brigitte felt a shiver corkscrew down her spine.
“Very good, my dear,” the Vicomtesse said, stroking the little girl’s hair. “Now, you must tell me, where will I find Vocal Henri?”
For a moment, the girl said nothing. She just stared, transfixed, at the Grand Magistrate. Then, glancing back over her shoulder, the girl’s lips began to quiver, and tears appeared at the corners of her eyes.
“I want my Maman,” she said.
“Then you had best tell me what I wish to know, my dear,” the Vicomtesse purred, even as a soldier clamped her hand over Marjorie Magret’s mouth, and another drew her sword. “Or else, I shall be forced to hang your poor mother, and you know that I do not wish to do that.” The Vicomtesse smiled, and she kept one finger beneath the little girl’s chin. “Now, my dear,” she said, “I shall ask you once more: Where is Vocal Henri?”
It was at that moment that Brigitte LaRoux found herself on her feet.
This came as something of a surprise to the Comtesse, for she could not recall having consciously decided to stand. But, not only was she standing, she was practically charging across the platform, with one arm outstretched, and one finger pointed squarely at Perrine Labelle.
“Madame, this is grotesque!” the Comtesse said, as she hurried towards the Vicomtesse.
Brigitte could hear armored footsteps close behind her, and, for a moment, she was not sure whether they belonged to Sir Ruth, or whether, perhaps, what she heard was the sound of the Vicomtesse’s chevalier, coming to restrain her.
But, in that instant, Brigitte decided that it did not matter, that she did not care.
What mattered was that she was going to do what she should have done hours ago. What mattered was that she was going to stand for the people of her city, as a Comtesse was supposed to do.
The Vicomtesse, meanwhile, did not turn around.
“Justice is never grotesque, my dear Comtesse,” she said, in the same matronizing tone with which she had just spoken to the little girl. “It is a thing of exquisite beauty, to one who understands it as I do.”
Then the Vicomtesse moved, so that Lili Magret was between her and Brigitte, and she put her hands on the little girl’s shoulders, so that the child could not move, and so that Brigitte had a clear view of the girl’s terrified face.
“Madame, she is a child!” Brigitte insisted, even as she drew up just a few paces short, her attention suddenly focused on just how close the Vicomtesse’s hands were to the little girl’s neck. “She can know nothing!”
The Vicomtesse shook her head, and made a tsking sound with her tongue.
“You would be surprised, my dear Comtesse, by what children may know,” she said. “Provided that one knows the proper way to ask, of course.”
Then, kneeling down, the Vicomtesse traced a finger across the small girl’s neck, in a gesture that was at once both affectionate and threatening. She drew the shaking girl close, and she whispered into her ear: “My dear, I shall not ask you again. For the final time, tell me, where can I find Vocal Henri?”
The girl seemed frozen.
“If you do not know, my dear,” the Vicomtesse purred, “then you must tell me as much. If you are telling the truth, then I shall believe you.”
The girl’s lips parted, and her voice shook.
“I do not know, Madame,” she said, quietly.
“Thank you, my dear,” Perrine Labelle said, and she petted the girl gently on her head.
Brigitte LaRoux could feel herself exhale. The Comtesse glanced over at the girl’s mother, who seemed ready to collapse from relief, and, silently, Brigitte tried to reassure the woman with her eyes.
The Vicomtesse Perrine Labelle, meanwhile, tousled the little girl’s hair one more time, before leaning forward to whisper once more into the girl’s ear.
“Lili Magret,” she said, softly, “I find you guilty on all counts, and I sentence you to hang from the neck until you are dead.”
For a second, the world fell silent.
Then, all at once, it seemed to explode.
Lili Magret screamed, and burst into tears. Brigitte LaRoux had to stifle a cry of her own.
Perrine Labelle just smiled.
Marjorie Magret fought like a wounded animal, and tried desperately to break free from the soldiers who held her. She bit the hand of the woman who was covering her mouth, and, with a piercing scream, she lunged in the direction of her daughter. But Sir Lisette – the Vicomtesse’s chevalier – came up behind the desperate woman, and, with a swift, powerful stroke, she struck the screaming mother across the back of the head with the flat of her sword, which dropped the woman where she stood, without even so much as a gasp. Lili herself, meanwhile, had also tried to run, but Perrine Labelle just wrapped an arm around her waist, and hoisted her up off the ground, so that her tiny feet kicked madly in the air.
Out among the crowd, Brigitte could hear shouts and yells, intermixed with the barked orders of soldiers.
“You cannot do this!” the Comtesse screamed at the Grand Magistrate, abandoning any pretext of decorum.
The Vicomtesse’s smile only widened, as she tightened her grip on the screaming child.
“My dear Comtesse,” she said, “she is just a peasant, and a small one, at that. Surely you can spare her. They breed so quickly, that I doubt you shall go wanting.”
“She is not just a peasant!” Brigitte screamed, drawing even closer, so that she could see the sadism glinting behind the Vicomtesse’s gray eyes. “She is a child – you cannot hang a child!”
The Vicomtesse appeared to consider that for a moment, before nodding her head.
“Of course, you are right, my dear,” she said. “The noose will not reach her – she is much too short.”
Turning to Sir Lisette, Perrine Labelle handed the screaming girl to her.
“We shall have to find a chair for her to stand on,” the Vicomtesse said to the chevalier, who nodded.
“I will not be party to this!” Brigitte said, jamming a finger into the Vicomtesse’s chest. “This, you cannot make me do!”
Perrine Labelle grabbed Brigitte’s wrist. Her grip was startlingly strong.
“You forget yourself, Madame,” she said, her voice suddenly hard, and cold. “I am the Baroness’s servant, as are you. We are both party to the maintenance of her rightful rule – to the maintenance of our rightful rule.” The Vicomtesse tightened her grip, and Brigitte winced. “If your heart were not so soft, my dear Comtesse, then surely you would understand.”
“Release me,” Brigitte said, “at once.”
After a long, tense moment, the Vicomtesse let go of Brigitte’s wrist.
“You should return to your seat, Madame,” she said. “It is safer there, and it would be a shame for you to miss what is about to happen. It will be a rare treat, I assure you.”
Brigitte shook her head.
“No,” she said, “I will not stay here. I will not be complicit in any more of this depravity.”
“My dear Comtesse, I urge you to reconsider.” Perrine Labelle smiled. “I fear for your safety, should you descend among the rabble.”
Brigitte balled her hands into fists.
“I shall take my chances among the rabble, Madame,” she said. “Unless you intend to prevent me from leaving – for my own protection, no doubt?”
The Vicomtesse studied Brigitte’s face for a moment, before shrugging her shoulders.
“You are not a prisoner, Madame.” Her smile widened. “You are, of course, free to go where you please. This is, after all, your city, and you are, after all, the Comtesse.”
“In that case, Madame, I take my leave,” Brigitte said, and she turned her back on the Vicomtesse without so much as a curt bow.
As Brigitte LaRoux stormed down the steps to the roiling square below, a wary-looking Sir Ruth fell into step behind her.
“Take me to the carriage,” Brigitte said to her chevalier.
“Yes, Madame,” Sir Ruth said, looking anxiously from side to side. “You will be safe back at the chateau.”
“We are not going to the chateau,” Brigitte said. She was walking so fast that the chevalier could barely keep up. “There is something in the carriage that I must retrieve.”
Turning her head, briefly, she caught Sir Ruth’s eyes.
“Then we are going to see my sister,” the Comtesse said.
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