Oh my gosh what’s going on – it’s an update! It really is! And a remarkably brief and unbrilliant one, at that. I plan to go back and revise the first chapter, since it’s just a bit old now, and then hopefully I’ll be able to go on and finish this, because I never intended to delay it so long.

Representative on Mission

Chapter 2

The carriage came to a halt again a few hours later. Glancing outside, Fersen could make out the silhouette of small quiet village. A memory surfaced: another sleeping town from not so long ago, a bewildered family huddled inside a carriage, one man outside, at first, then another, then a crowd, growing and morphing, suddenly animated with intrigue–the King? Is it really him? Well, I'll be damned–held captive all those long tense hours, wondering what would become of them. Fersen burying his face in his hands, biting back tears, knowing what had gone wrong, knowing how easily he could have prevented it and it was entirely his fault they'd been caught but, God, how could he deny Antoinette anything when she looked at him that way?

I only wanted to please her. I've–

The driver was just opening the door on his side but Saint-Just was already halfway out. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

“I don't think we ought to push on tonight. It's awfully dark; dark and eerie.”

“And you expect me to be delayed because you’re afraid of the dark?” Saint-Just sounded disbelieving.

“My horse is tired. You've been here since this evening, but he’s been working all day.”

“And I’m traveling on important business!” It was clear from his tone that the driver already knew what this important business was. Fersen felt dimly curious, but he had no reason to ask. Instead, he attempted to placate his fellow passenger by announcing that he, at least, was ready to rest, and that if the others wanted to move on, they could drop him off there.

Saint-Just stared at him for a moment, obviously making some sort of mental calculation. “Very well,” he said at length, “is this an inn?”

“It is. It’s a decent place, Citizen, I’ve been here before.”

Wordlessly, Saint-Just turned and entered the building. Fersen followed, trying to hide the weakness in his legs. He hadn't found much occasion to use them lately.

He was distracted while Saint-Just and the driver were speaking with the innkeeper, but he was prompted to reach for his purse when he saw the others do the same. He didn't find it.

“He's staying with me,” said Saint-Just, taking note of his plight. Fersen cast him a look of gratitude. The innkeeper shrugged disdainfully and began to escort the travelers to their rooms, but Saint-Just stopped him, raising his hand authoritatively. “I think I'll go for a walk first,” he said.

Fersen remained uncertainly where he stood. He watched the innkeeper, disconcerted that the latter would not meet his eye.

“Well, will you be joining me?” Saint-Just asked. His manner of speaking suggested some hidden consequence. Perhaps not a poet, after all, Fersen mused.

“I think not,” he answered.

“Suit yourself,” Saint-Just said.

Fersen let slip a private smile as he turned away. The other man’s eyes had burned an afterimage across his own.

A quarter of an hour later, having installed himself in his room, he found himself, perplexingly, in nearly the same position he’d been in that morning, draped over the bed with his coat half-fastened and his boots discarded unceremoniously under a chair. But here, in this place, it was easy to squeeze his eyes shut and force her image away with only a little pain. Instead, another face appeared unbidden before him: the girl who had lived with Oscar for a time – Rosalie. He had not realized that he knew her name. It was funny that he should think of her now. Gossip aside, he knew nothing about her; he wasn’t even sure whether she was still alive. It was so hard to keep track these days (he added lightly).

And Oscar. He thought of her often, though less, by and by, but he rarely missed her. It was too perfect; her whole existence was too perfect to touch. He could not see his Oscar in 1793, and he did not want to. He regretted only that she had not been honored as she deserved. She had (it still pained him) died for the bloody Republic, une et indivisible; why should Marat be lauded in the Panthéon while Oscar de Jarjayes was – nowhere? She was not even spoken of with contempt. She had simply vanished.

He thought of the young man he had met in the carriage. He wanted to ask him whether he’d heard of Oscar de Jarjayes. It was a strange whim, but it gave him something to occupy his thoughts. He listened to his droning pulse and anticipated the man’s return.