Bisclavret

Chapter 5

Two days later, I'm back in the swaying carriage, my head leaned against the rear wall as I cry. The pain in my shoulder is atrocious, but that's not why I'm crying. I'm crying because we just buried our men in an unmarked grave in the woods, and now we're leaving them behind.

We lost five to the sans culottes: Michele and Jean-Luc in the first assault, Antoine in the scuffle I started, and then Maximillien and Ferdinand in the forest as they fought the remaining revolutionaries. Though my heart aches for them all, it's Antoine's face that fills my vision. He was just a few years older than me, and with his kind manners and laughing nature, he reminded me more of his father than either of his brothers do.

In all the time I knew him, I never heard him utter a mean word. He was so very different than the other men of his rank, possessing neither the witty sarcasm nor the bored rakishness that seems to be the popular attitude of his peers. He'd been intent on joining the army, on following in his father's footsteps even though he wouldn't inherit the title. I'd seldom seen him in the past few years, as he spent most of his time at the Prussian military school where he was studying in Paris, but since we fled to the Beauchene's ancestral home, I'd seen him more often. Even then, it seemed he was always striving towards his goals, his nose pressed into the pages of military histories, treaties on war, or the memoirs of famous generals.

But now he's dead, and I wish I'd spent more time around him. Yes, I'm a servant, and, no, we didn't interact directly very often, but whenever we did, he always had a kind word for me or asked about my father or sisters. Now he'll never ask again. He won't follow in his father's footsteps; he won't become the great man he was destined to be. The sans culottes robbed him of that future as they had so many others.

Beside me, Maryse does her best to stifle her own tears. She'd wisely hidden when the first shot rang out and only came back to our party late that night, the marquise and Livy trailing in her wake – as I'd hoped, they'd found each other. I gaze across the carriage at mother and daughter now, their arms wrapped around each other as they cry. The grief in their sobs is enough to break my heart all over again.

My gaze falls to the right side of Livy's face. It's an ugly collage of purple, green and blue, swollen from where that man hit her. It has to hurt, having her face so scrunched up in grief, but she doesn't even wince at the pain, so much worse is her heartache. I tear my gaze away from her; every time I see her bruises, rage mingles with my sorrow. I'm mad at the sans culottes, but I'm also mad at myself. At the time, I thought I was doing the right thing by waiting until the perfect moment to strike, but if I had been quicker, she might not wear these bruises.

The carriage jolts as we hit a rut in the road, and I cringe and close my eyes, gritting my teeth. God, the pain. Jacques was right; I was shot. One of the men with us used to treat soldiers on the battlefield, and he told me I'm lucky, that the bullet must have hit the tree first and ricocheted into my upper arm, where it's now lodged. I asked him how that made me lucky, and he said, "Because it didn't kill you right away." He smiled afterward like it was funny.

Soldiers, I've learned, have a macabre sense of humor.

The marquise wanted to stop in Couron so I could see a doctor, but Couron is close to Chollet, the city the republican and Royal Catholic armies have been drawing ever closer to. I told her I could wait until we reached her cousin. We'd faced enough danger already, and I couldn't stomach placing everyone in more just to have my arm looked at in a town that would soon turn into a battlefield. Plus, if we maintain our current pace, we'll reach our destination in two days. I told her I could hold on until then, but with each new jostle of the carriage, I'm beginning to wonder if I was a bit optimistic. My shoulder throbs, and my whole arm feels hot and tight like I stayed out too long in the sun.