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

Chapter Five - 2. February. 1789

Gabriel

Gabriel never gets used to walking through this section of Paris. Unlike Faubourg Saint-Germain with its grand houses, expensive couturières, and well-manicured trees, Faubourg Saint-Antoine is a fetid sore in the center of the city. He walks to Baptiste’s pâtisserie with his hood up, avoiding the gazes of curious passersby. The wind is biting. Ice and snow soak through his stockings. His fingers lost their feeling hours ago. 

Even so, he hurries on. Past exhausted linkboys, snuffing out their torches for the night; women with cheeks red as poppies and whispers coated with the stench of cheap wine; men with cheeks so sunken and hollow, their bodies resemble skeletons in the snow. Then Baptiste’s shop comes into view, and he heads for the candlelit windows, relief flooding his veins in near palpable warmth. 

His guilt is a tangible thing, hanging low and heavy in his gut. He can’t stand these hungry eyes and mirthless smiles knowing he’s clean, his belly is full, and he has a soft bed to return to when his visit is finished. 

He throws open the door and steps inside, removing the hood of his cloak. A clump of snow slides off the hood and falls onto the ground, creating a damp spot on the floorboards. The air is warmer here, heated by a wood-fired oven, and the space is sweet, smelling of sugar and fruit marmalades. 

Gabriel nods his head at the lone dough puncher in the back, making his way to the staircase leading to Baptiste’s private apartment. Though the closer he gets, the greater his apprehension becomes. At this very moment, Henri de Froix’s guard could be telling the king about the man who shot his employer; the man with quick reflexes, light steps, and a strange, two-toned eye. 

Gabriel should think of an excuse—tell Baptiste he’s certain the man didn’t see him, that he got away before more harm could be done, and there is no reason for anyone to worry. But as he enters Baptiste’s apartment and sees him sitting alone at a table near the smoldering hearth, all Gabriel can think of to say is, “He couldn’t tell me anything about Henriette.” 

Baptiste glances up from the leaping flames, nonplussed. “Who couldn’t?”

“Henri de Froix.” Gabriel takes a step forward, then stops. The salon is small and dark, furnished with nothing but a table and a threadbare rug. He’s taken a single step inside, and already feels like an imposition. “He didn’t have any information. You said he would know what happened to Henriette. You said I’d be able to find out more about where she’s gone. You said—”

He swallows back his hysteria. He can’t let himself get out of control. Bad things happen when his emotions run wild. He agreed to start killing because he didn’t know how to keep himself calm. He won’t allow that to happen again. 

Baptiste stares at Gabriel for a few seconds, saying nothing. There is a glass of red wine clutched in his hand, and he brings it to his lips, taking two deep swallows. “Why are you worried about that when you should be worried about the man who has been taken to Versailles for questioning?” 

Gabriel starts, heart thrashing against his eardrums. “How did you know?”  

With an upturn of his eyebrow, Baptiste motions for Gabriel to join him at the table. Gabriel hesitates, and Baptiste frowns, patting the chair’s faded cherry wood arm. 

Gabriel sits, and Baptiste plucks the wine bottle off the floor, followed by an age-stained glass. He fills the glass to the brim and slides it over to Gabriel, where it rests inches from his fingertips. The crimson liquid reflects Gabriel’s own features back at him—the sharp curve of his jaw, the mouth that has forgotten how to smile, the eyes that could give him away in an instant. From this angle, his entire face looks drenched in blood.