L'Ange de la Mort (The Art of Revolution #1)

Chapter Four - 2. February. 1789

Gabriel

It takes every ounce of Gabriel’s strength for him not to fall asleep in the middle of the Salon de Mars. 

Again. 

But he does pull his hat over his face and stare up at the faint orange light that filters through the black fabric, listening to the sounds of the salon. His friends arguing over a game of whist; the faint yaps of lap dogs across the room; the click of betting chips on enameled faro tables. It’s calming somehow—focusing on the noise around him and allowing it to drown out his own thoughts. At least it is calming until Jean plucks Gabriel’s hat straight off his face. 

Gabriel squints against the sudden onslaught of candlelight and turns to Jean. “What is it this time?” 

A group of girls is gathered around their table to watch the card game, silk fans flapping in front of their faces. The scent of their various floral perfumes is cloying. 

“People are beginning to notice your lack of attention,” Jean says through his teeth. 

Gabriel glances around the room, and sure enough, eyes dart to their table—mostly of the female sort—before returning to their own gambling and games. The main focus is Jean, as it always is, but that doesn’t stop the eyes from resting on Gabriel as well. 

His current pose is less than stately for sure, but at the moment, Gabriel wants nothing more than to be left alone with his own thoughts. Or rather, his lack of thoughts.

“They wouldn’t be looking over here at all if it wasn’t for your constant yelling,” Gabriel says.

“It’s not me who is yelling.” Jean places a hand over his heart in mock offense. “It’s Nicolas.” 

“I am not!” Nicolas protests from across the table.

“You are yelling at this precise moment, Monsieur de Villeneuve,” Jean says. Then to Gabriel whispers, “Are you all right? You look a bit...pale and miserable.” 

“I’m fine.” 

Jean stares at Gabriel for a few seconds longer, frowning. Then he throws his cards on the table and takes Gabriel by the arm. “Come with me.” 

“Where are you going?” Pierre asks. “We haven’t yet finished our game.” 

Jean waves a hand. “We are both well aware you were going to lose anyway. You should be thanking me for saving you a few louis.” 

Not waiting for Pierre’s response, Jean stands—Gabriel’s arm still in his grasp—and leads them away from the gaming table. 

As they go, Charlotte de Fontin intercepts them, shooting Jean a pout. “Leaving so soon, Monsieur de Coligny?” 

Jean releases Gabriel’s arm and bows. “Not for long, mon ange. Don’t you dare move a single gorgeous limb. I’ll return before you have the chance to feel my absence.” 

“Promise?” 

“Mademoiselle, I would never lie to someone so beautiful.” 

Mademoiselle de Fontin flushes to the roots of her hair. Next to them, Gabriel shifts from one foot to the other as their conversation continues, looking around the salon. After a moment, his gaze lands on the new English girl—Lizabeth Morgan—with Marguerite d’Aumont on the other side of the room. He promised Anne he would talk to the girl, but he can’t imagine himself walking over there and making polite conversation now. Not after the way he presented himself earlier.