A/N: The Saint-Just in this story is most definitely the fictional version from the anime, not the real-life one or the manga version! Also, I disregarded historical accuracy in favor of the Rose of Versailles time line. However, I have added some details about the real Saint-Just's life, such as Thérèse and his family, to flesh out his anime character.

A few people have left reviews expressing displeasure that I made the anime Saint-Just into a somewhat sympathetic character, apparently because they dislike the real Saint-Just. Yes, I'm quite aware that he helped send many people to their deaths. But like most human beings, he was a multi-faceted person who had good qualities as well. If you don't like the idea of a portrayal of him as more than a flat, two-dimensional character, don't read the story.

This chapter mostly takes place after the ball for Oscar's suitors in episode 30, later that same night. The end takes place during episode 35.

After Lady Oscar's scandalous appearance in uniform, General Bouille's ball did not last long. Gerodere was the first to leave, and thirty minutes later he was in a carriage headed towards Paris, still chuckling ruefully from time to time when he thought about how Oscar had made fools of them all.

The habit of making secret visits to Paris was Gerodere's only hidden vice-- and it was hidden indeed. When he grew frustrated with his life as a noble, he enjoyed leaving his carriage outside the city gates and wandering the streets disguised as a commoner, an ordinary member of the Third Estate. It was his only escape from the privileges, both real and dubious, of nobility, and he did not allow himself to indulge often. Tonight, however, he believed he had earned it.

He found respite from his humiliation in a small, noisy tavern. He sat at the bar next to a surprisingly young-looking man and ordered a drink which he didn't even touch. Instead, he tried to lose his thoughts in study of the people around him.

"Not thirsty?" the barkeep asked as he walked by, prodding at Gerodere's glass. "Drink up. You look like you need it."

Gerodere took an obligatory sip, hoping the barkeep would move on, but the old man leaned on the bar in front of him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Gerodere glanced at the man beside him for help, but he just smirked and watched them.

"It's a girl, isn't it?" the barkeep persisted.

"Yes," Gerodere admitted, hoping it would satisfy the old man. "I asked her to marry me, but she refused."

"Left you for another fellow, eh?"

"Not exactly," replied Gerodere wryly. "There isn't anyone else-- I think she simply does not want to marry anyone. She's very. . . independent."

The barkeep chuckled. As he moved on to torture another patron, he commented, "There's always someone. There'll be another one for you too."

"Not like her," Gerodere muttered.

"Hmph," the man next to Gerodere scoffed. "Women matter little at this time. What is the loss of a woman compared to our rights as men?"

Gerodere glanced at him. "Obviously, you have never been in love with one." The man only laughed and sipped at his drink. Gerodere took the chance to study him: shoulder-length brownish-blonde hair, narrow eyes of indeterminate color, long straight nose. He was dressed in a sky-blue coat with an immaculate cravat. Not pure rabble then, though of course not noble. Unless, like Gerodere, he was in disguise. . . .

The man glanced at him and raised an eyebrow. "Yes, citizen?"

Gerodere flushed and turned away. "You look a bit familiar-- I thought perhaps I knew you. But I was mistaken."

"Ah. No, I do not think you would know me-- not yet, anyway."

"Not yet?"

Once again, the man laughed, though the emotion did not change the coldness of his face. "De rien. My name is Saint-Just. And you?"

Gerodere said the first name that popped into his head. "Bonneville."

"Ah. Bonjour." Saint-Just raised his glass, half mockingly, then set it down once more. "What do you do for a living, Bonneville?"

Gerodere was beginning to regret the whole adventure. "Euh. . . I'm a lawyer. But not a very successful one, I'm afraid."

"Mmm, I see. That would explain your manner of dress."

"What's wrong with my manner of dress?" Gerodere blushed hotly. The last thing he needed was for this bizarre man to figure him out.

"Oh, nothing is wrong with it, it is merely familiar. You see, I have some law training myself-- my mother's idea-- and most of my. . . associates are lawyers as well." Saint-Just smirked. "You have to look respectable of course, but not too much so. It's a delicate balance."

Gerodere exhaled in relief and took another swallow of his drink. "Yes. Delicate indeed."

"Although sometimes," Saint-Just went on, tapping a fingernail against the counter, "something stronger than delicacy is called for. Wouldn't you agree?"

For some reason, all Gerodere could think of was Oscar in her military uniform, laughing at the men who had come to court her. Had delicacy cost him her hand? Saint-Just cleared his throat, and Gerodere realized he expected an answer. "I believe. . . it depends on the situation. In love--"

"I am not talking about love!" Saint-Just spat with such venom, Gerodere looked at him in amazement. "You fool, can't you see beyond your own petty feelings? I am speaking of France, of liberty!"

Gerodere had had enough. Oscar had already laughed at him; he did not need this pretty blonde stranger to call him a fool on top of it. He set down his glass hard and threw some money on the bar as he stood.

Saint-Just smirked and grasped his sleeve. "No, sit. Forgive me for my outburst. You only reminded me of something that happened long ago."

"Oh, so you have loved a woman?" Gerodere smiled a little and sat down, strangely relieved at finding some common ground.

Saint-Just shrugged. "Not in the same way, I think. . . Thérèse was my friend. But in our friendship we lacked the delicacy that you seem to find so important, and her father hated me for it. He stood in my way politically for a long time-- but no more!" The blonde's fist had been clenched tightly on the counter, but now he slowly relaxed it. "Perhaps you are right, mon ami. Delicacy would have saved me much trouble. But no matter." He looked at Gerodere and smiled. For the first time, a hint of warmth touched his eyes. "Allow yourself to forget your love for tonight. Let us talk about France instead."

Surprisingly, it was easy. Saint-Just had a way with language that entranced Gerodere, and he truly did forget about Oscar's rejection while he listened to the young man explain the France of his dreams. The details of it drifted past Gerodere, for it was Saint-Just's passion that came across most clearly. The one concept that Gerodere did remember was the value Saint-Just placed on friendship. In his world, his France men would declare their friends publicly and would remain true to them for life. There was a naïveté about it all to Gerodere, who had seen at Versailles just how false friendship could be, yet he welcomed it for it tempered Saint-Just's coolness. From the fervor with which he spoke, it seemed that Saint-Just had lost his best, his only friend-- perhaps Thérèse-- and was determined that he would carve the corruption out of France until such a thing could never happen again.

As Saint-Just talked, the din around them had grown, until Gerodere had to lean close in order to hear his new acquaintance. Finally Saint-Just glared at the other patrons before paying the bartender for his single drink.

"Shall we go somewhere else?" he said with an air of disgust. "I cannot even think with all this noise."

"All right." Gerodere stood with him, and they made their way out of the bar. "Although it is getting late. I should retire."

"Are you tired? Or will you lie awake, thinking of her?"

"I. . . ." Gerodere laughed ruefully. "I had managed to forget until now."

"My rooms are nearby," Saint-Just offered, "if you care to discuss things further. I would enjoy hearing some of your ideas, as I have done most of the talking." His previously egotistical air softened a little as he smiled.

"Oh, I have no ideas," Gerodere replied, "but I will gladly listen." Still, Saint-Just was silent as they walked to his rooms. They were clean, yet small and plain. Saint-Just offered Gerodere a chair, while he himself sat on the edge of the bed.

"What is she like?" he asked abruptly. "This woman you love."

Gerodere almost laughed aloud. How could you explain Lady Oscar to anyone? Finally he answered, "Slender, blonde. . . some would say cold. But she is fiery when she is passionate." He paused and studied Saint-Just. "In a way. . . though she is nothing like you, you remind me of her."

Saint-Just gave him a startled look, then it faded and he laughed. "Your mind is so addled with this silly love, everything reminds you of her." He picked up a book that lay open on his bed and flipped idly though the pages. "Plato." Saint-Just held the book up. "Have you read him?"

"Yes, of course," Gerodere said indignantly. "I would not be educated if--" He broke off as he realized it wasn't exactly the answer a commoner was expected to give.

"Oh?" Saint-Just looked at Gerodere steadily until the soldier flushed and looked away. "Like you," Saint-Just went on, "I have read him. He tried to create an ideal society too, you know, if only in writing."

Cautiously, Gerodere ventured, "Yes, but it did not seem much like yours. He had no faith in the common people."

"Oh, I have no faith in them either," Saint-Just smirked. He leaned back on his left elbow, resting his right hand inside his coat. "But the difference between us is that I have no faith in anyone-- and better the masses to rule than the nobles. Wouldn't you agree?"

He looked so innocent lying there, and yet Gerodere feared him, though to answer in the affirmative would be treasonous.

"Well?" His finely sculpted lips curved slightly. "Speak from your heart."

Gerodere closed his eyes. "I suppose I am an idealist, Saint-Just, for my heart is happy with neither solution. A ruler should be chosen because he is fit to rule. Not because of his rank-- whether it be high or low." As he spoke the words, he imagined a France in which the fittest did rule, and he saw Lady Oscar as the queen.

"Well said," murmured Saint-Just. Gerodere opened his eyes to see the other man sit up and take his hand from inside his jacket. It was empty.

Saint-Just stood and, stretching, removed his jacket. "Would you care for something to drink? I have coffee, although I'm afraid I can't offer you sugar."

Gerodere watched the slender figure cross the room to the fireplace and stoke the embers. "I don't want to inconvenience you. I really should--" A clap of thunder made both men start and turn to the window. The sound of soft rain rattled the glass.

"Ah, look at that. Nature has decided the matter for you." Saint-Just leaned across the table to pick up a cup that rested near Gerodere's arm. "Take off your jacket and reacquaint yourself with Plato. The coffee will only be a few moments."

Gerodere pretended to read, but his eyes refused to focus on the page. Was this what the other nobles thought was so bad, so ridiculous? This elegant blonde-- who was more intelligent and more graceful than any of the nobles save Oscar-- and his dreams of a France based on friendship? Even if they were the dreams of a man who had no friends, who trusted no one.

"Here." Saint-Just set a cup of coffee down in front of him and gently took the book from his hand. Gerodere sipped at his drink as Saint-Just drew a second chair up to the small table and sat across from him.

"You're young, aren't you?" Gerodere asked as he studied Saint-Just. The blonde looked up with an expression of faint surprise.

"I am twenty-one. Why?"

"Mon Dieu." Gerodere looked down at his coffee, embarrassed. "I thought. . . I am thirty-six. I didn't think you were that much--"

Saint-Just shrugged as he interrupted, "You are hardly old." He smirked faintly. "I am merely very young, as you say."

"Still. . . I am afraid I'm too old to see your ideas put into practice." Saint-Just set aside his coffee and watched him. Gerodere swallowed hard under the other man's gaze.

"I make you nervous," Saint-Just murmured. "Why?" He leaned close to Gerodere and looked at him intently.

"You--" Gerodere felt himself flush. He tried to look away from the cold brown eyes-- when had he ever seen brown eyes be cold before?-- but could not. "You're so beautiful. Almost as beautiful as she is."

It was obviously not the answer Saint-Just had expected. For the first time, his pale cheeks reddened and he seemed to have lost some of his composure. "Oh. . . . I thought-- never mind." He smiled, a true smile this time. "Even though you are in love with a woman. . . I am beautiful?"

Gerodere merely nodded. Saint-Just broke into laughter tinged with irony. "Oh, this is just perfect."

Hurt and offended, Gerodere stared at him. "What--" He started to rise, but Saint-Just clutched his shoulders and held him in his seat.

"No, I'm not laughing at you." Saint-Just edged his chair forward until he was so close, one of his knees was between Gerodere's. "Bonneville, have you ever been with another man?"

"No! Of course not!" Gerodere cried. "I have never 'been with' anyone as you say. I am unmarried--"

Saint-Just laughed again. "You think that stops most people? You think those nobles at Versailles care if--"

"It stopped me," Gerodere replied firmly.

"You've never even considered it, have you? You fall fashionably in love with a woman, only thinking of another man when you find an especially pretty one that might resemble that woman. You wouldn't know the first thing about making love to a man."

Gerodere hardly knew what to think. "Well, do you?"

Saint-Just finally stopped the almost mad laughter and merely smiled. "If you find me so beautiful-- kiss me."

It was spoken like a challenge, yet the look in Saint-Just's eyes made it seem almost a plea. Gerodere's gaze traveled down from Saint-Just's hard eyes to his mouth, the feminine lips pressed in a thin line. "Prove yourself," the young man's expression seemed to say. "See if you can move me."

Even though Gerodere knew it was wrong, even though he thought with all his might about Lady Oscar, he ached for the challenge. I'll never see him again, he told himself, and he doesn't know my real name. No one will ever find out. It was enough justification for Gerodere, and he placed his shaking hands on Saint-Just's shoulders, leaned forward, and touched his lips to that cold mouth.

For an instant, Saint-Just did not respond, then his lips parted beneath Gerodere's. Gerodere drew Saint-Just's bottom lip between his teeth, eliciting a barely-audible moan from the younger man. Gerodere forced himself to pull away after the single kiss, and he sat back, breathing heavily. Saint-Just cast an unreadable look at him, then picked up his coffee and drank again.

"I have some work to finish," Saint-Just murmured. "My colleague Robespierre asked me to read through a speech of his. I hope you won't mind if I finish up."

"No, of course not." Gerodere stared down into the depths of his own cup. "And as soon as the rain stops, I'll be on my way." Truthfully, he didn't want to leave at all. He ached to push aside the coffee cups and the papers Saint-Just was reading, to take the other man in his arms and kiss him again. But he forced himself to sit still, finish his coffee and listen to the parts of Robespierre's speech which Saint-Just read aloud. The words barely registered and Gerodere couldn't have repeated a single phrase or idea, but he managed to appear interested until long after he had finished his coffee and begun to yawn. Finally Saint-Just glanced up and noticed Gerodere's exhaustion.

"You look tired. If you'd like to lie down for a while, I can wake you when the storm is over." Saint-Just gestured toward the bed with one slender hand.

"I don't want to impose."

"You won't be imposing. I may be another hour on this speech, and you've pretended to listen long enough." At Gerodere's embarrassed protest, Saint-Just chuckled. "Don't worry, it doesn't offend me. Robespierre's writing is not always. . . concise. That is why he asked for my help."

Saint-Just stood and moved behind Gerodere, starting to remove the soldier's coat. Gerodere found himself letting Saint-Just take his jacket, then Gerodere relented and bent to dispose of his boots. As Saint-Just sat down once more and turned back to the speech, Gerodere regarded his muddy pants.

"I don't want to get your sheets dirty--"

"Take them off," Saint-Just waved his hand at Gerodere distractedly, already absorbed in his work.

"The sheets?"

"Your clothes. Whatever's dirty." He cocked one brown eye up at Gerodere. "I promise I won't look."

"Oh." Flushing, Gerodere removed his pants once he was sure Saint-Just was looking only at the papers before him, then got into the bed in his shirt and undergarments. Gerodere still didn't trust the young man fully, and he tried to stay awake by staring at the flickering light of Saint-Just's candle. However, the small flame blurred and distorted before Gerodere's gaze, and he closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, the light had been extinguished.

I must have fallen asleep, Gerodere thought drowsily. It took him a moment to realize that Saint-Just was in bed next to him, asleep as well. Without the candle, Gerodere could hardly see even the outline of Saint-Just's body, but a dim flicker of lightning from the dying storm illuminated him briefly. Again Gerodere was struck with the young man's beauty, so different from Oscar's in some ways yet in others exactly the same. In the blue-white lightning, Saint-Just's lips looked as if they were carved from marble.

Against his better judgment, Gerodere leaned over the still man and kissed him softly. Instantly Saint-Just came alive, whether he really slept that lightly or had only been feigning slumber. One hand clamped over the back of Gerodere's head, fingers lacing in his hair. Gerodere drew in his breath sharply, expecting to be slapped or pushed out of the bed.

Saint-Just forced Gerodere's head down with one hand and kissed him fiercely, thrusting his tongue into the soldier's mouth. Gerodere relaxed against him, pressing his body against Saint-Just's and embracing the younger man's shoulders in his arms. They kissed until Gerodere's jaw ached and his lips felt raw. Finally he tore his mouth away from Saint-Just's and rested his head on the pillow beside the young man.

"What is your given name?" Saint-Just asked abruptly, his voice slightly raspy. "I should know if you're going to be kissing me."

"Guilliame. And yours?"

"Antoine."

Saint-Just said nothing else, leaving Gerodere feeling guilty for kissing him. I'm sorry, Oscar, he thought, though it wasn't really to Oscar that he apologized. Oscar, he knew, wouldn't care, would probably laugh if she knew.

Gerodere slid his hand across the sheet to touch Saint-Just's arm. The younger man's skin was still cool as stone.

"What is it, Guilliame Bonneville?" Saint-Just's voice sounded sleepy over the false name.

"Nothing." Gerodere withdrew his hand and closed his eyes. There was one distant growl of thunder, then all was silent. He couldn't even hear Saint-Just breathe. He was almost asleep when Saint-Just's fingertips brushed his hand, then closed over it.

The next morning, Gerodere was awakened when Saint-Just got out of bed. He opened his eyes in time to get a glimpse of the young man's body-- slender as a woman's and somehow more beautiful-- before it was hidden by clothing. Gerodere sat up groggily and attempted to put his shirt back on.

"I must take this speech to Robespierre," Saint-Just said brusquely when he saw Gerodere was awake. He put on his sky-blue jacket and began combing his hair. "I'm already late."

"I'm sorry." Gerodere sat up and began to dress. "I should have left last night--" Thank God he had the day off himself as his absence from the Guards would have been hard to explain. Judging from the light coming in the window, it was already mid-morning. He stood and went to the door. "Thank you for sharing your ideas with me. And. . . bonne chance."

Saint-Just looked at him with the smirk Gerodere had seen so often the night before. "Yes." He looked down at the speech lying on his table, then picked it up and tucked it into his jacket. "I will accept that as genuine good will."

"What? Of course it is--"

"Yes, as much as your name is Bonneville." Saint-Just walked over to him as his smirk faded. "I don't know who you really are, but you couldn't be anyone but a noble."

"Saint-Just--"

The younger man put his fingertips to Gerodere's lips. "No. I don't want to know. Otherwise I might feel obligated to do something unpleasant to you." He took his hand away, leaving Gerodere staring at him and wondering at the pain he felt in his heart. Then Saint-Just pinned his shoulders against the door with his hands and kissed him, hard. The young man drew back after that single kiss. "Now. Leave."

Gerodere obeyed. I'll never see him again, he thought as he walked away from Saint-Just's lodging. Last night the thought had been comforting, had given Gerodere the freedom to kiss the beautiful young man. Now it filled him with an aching like nothing he had ever felt before-- not even when he knew that Lady Oscar would not be his wife.

"This is for you, even if I shall become a traitor."

Hidden by the crowd and the rain, with his eyes Saint-Just followed the commander as he ordered his men to retreat and rode away. Gerodere. So that was his real name-- and he was head of the Royal Guards. Then Saint-Just's cold brown eyes moved to the blonde woman who had stood between the Guards and the delegates at the Etats General, the woman for whom Gerodere would commit treason.

That is she, thought Saint-Just. The woman he loves. A noble of course, just as Gerodere was, and the commander of the French Guard. It was fortunate, really. That gave Saint-Just two excuses to kill her. Robespierre wouldn't approve, of course, but he wouldn't be surprised either. And he would never suspect that Saint-Just tried to murder Oscar Francois de Jarjeyes not as a cold-blooded revolutionary, but as a jealous lover.