Death and la Commandant

8 July, 1789. La Biévre, Paris France

The streets of La Biévre were growing quieter and quieter as the zero hour approached. There were few lanterns lit, and even fewer carriages out. Whispers could be heard echoing off of the walls of narrow alleyways. Rats scurried across clotheslines. Drunken shadows stumbled in the streets. There came a clip-clop clip-clop and rattle of a horse pulling a buggy, and the shadow of a man holding reins and a whip slid across the patch of moonlight thrust across the cobblestones. A puff of warm air wisped out of the horse's nostrils as it snorted. The man stopped the horse without a word or tug of the reins. The beast of burden stomped its feet restlessly. The man hopped off of the black cushioned seat of the buggy. His shoes did not make a sound on the stones. His gloved hand rank along the horse's side. He patted its neck and broke away.
    The man propped himself up on the adjacent stone wall that fenced in the courtyard of a tall cathedral. Saint Aurelio's Cathedral. He hopped over the wall and landed softly on the unkempt grass, coat trailing behind him. An owl sailed over him, flapping it's wings as it swept down over a black dot on the ground and snatched it up. The man watched with mild curiosity before he continued on. He stepped onto the window ledge of the beginning of a stained glass work. He grabbed onto one of the iron pieces separating the coloured panes and pulled himself up. He scrambled up to the third floor and slipped into an open window - an open window open for him.
    The cathedral was silent. Statues of saints and holy beings watched like sentinels with their heads bowed. Pyres stretched up to the high ceiling, where an iron cross was perched. Pews and stairs lined the stone floor. Candelabras lined the walls, giant thuribles hung from the ceiling and walls, still leaking rivers of white smoke. The man's eyes scanned across the church, sweeping over it like a wind across the sea. He walked to the northern end  of the cathedral, walking quicker now. He came to a tight spiral staircase in the corner of the church and jogged up the turn, walking into a very messy little library with a unmade cot in the middle of it. There was a monk holding a flickering white candle over a book in his arms. He stood on a ladder attached to a bookshelf.
    "Bonne nuit," the man said in a clear voice. The monk looked up, surprised. He narrowed his eyes, then raised his eyebrows in realisation.
    "Oh! Monsieur, I didn't expect you!" The monk climbed off of the ladder and set his book and candle on a little vanity table that had been repurposed as a desk.
    The man smiled. "No..." He murmured.
    "To what do I owe the pleasure at this....ungodly hour of the night?"
    "I'm looking for someone," the man said. "Time is of the essence."
    "Do I get any backstory?" asked the monk, trying to tidy up his living space some. The man simply shook his head reply. "Surely you'd be able to contact higher powers for help with this? My employer is more than capable of helping." The two men shared a chuckle.
    "Not for this, Mister Patarava. Igor Bouchard," said the man. "Do you know him?"
    The monk paused for a moment. A gunshot split the night open outside. Slowly, the robed monk straightened a small pile of parchment. The sound of the paper hitting the table three times seemed to echo in the little annex. "Yes, I do. Sources tell me that his body rots where it was shot."
    "And that is where?"
    "Beaugendre."
    The man dipped his head in thanks and headed for the tight little stairwell once more. He angled his head down and to the side, just so the monk could see the light smile playing at his lips. "You have sources?" He jeered.
    "Until we meet again, Monsieur le Trépas," said the monk, meeting his smirk. The man disappeared down the stairs and out of the cathedral, travelling through the shadows and over the town like the Angel of Death....