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

Chapter Thirty-Three - 14. March. 1789



Gabriel

Gabriel doesn’t allow himself time to think. He shoves past François, the man still laughing at his successfully executed plan, and barrels into the Grand Commun. The hallways are quiet and dark, muted candlelight flickering against the marble walls. Everyone has migrated to the salons for the nightly games, so the emptiness is to be expected, but that only serves to amplify Gabriel’s terror. For now, there is nothing to stop Marie from making her kill. 

He dashes down the corridor, his feet propelling him on memory alone. He’s walked this same path countless times, when fetching Jean for help with a mission, or when dropping Jean off after a night of drinking, or when Gabriel felt ready to shatter, and being with Jean was the only thing keeping him whole.  

He should have told Jean about his father. The opportunities to do so were endless, but Gabriel could never stomach the courage to tell him the truth. He already has enough problems with his father as it is, and Gabriel knew the knowledge would have soured the relationship past a place where it could ever be sweet again. Jean doesn’t deserve that. He deserves love and care and a chance to mend broken ties. But now, because of Gabriel’s thoughtlessness, Jean may never get that chance. 

Gabriel climbs the stairs and enters the hallway leading to Jean’s apartment. The doors lining the hall are tall and thick, carved from a rich mahogany and painted white. Gold glitters against the sconces on the walls, with woven tapestries, oil paintings, and marble statues placed between them. 

Marie should have never been allowed in this hallway to begin with. This area is reserved for the highest members of the court; the men who have the most influence, and the families that need the most protection. But there are no guards manning the corridors, nor servants keeping watch. 

Which leads Gabriel to believe Baptiste’s influence stretches far beyond what he could have ever imagined. 

Heart bursting against his lungs, he rounds the corner—and stops. The door to Jean’s apartments is open, light from the crystal chandeliers leaking into the hallway. Gabriel approaches the door, knowing no matter how long he waits, no matter how greatly he readies himself, he will never be prepared for what he’s about to face. 

And he’s right.

Hand resting on the gilded door frame, he glances into the room, and there is Jean’s father, neck hanging at an odd angle and sitting in a powder blue wingback chair. A chair now drenched in blood. 

"Comte de Coligny?" Gabriel asks in a tentative whisper.

But, of course, there is no answer.

Gabriel rushes to the chair, falling to his knees in front of his best friend’s father. He takes the comte’s hand, fingers fumbling for a pulse. Nothing. Cursing, Gabriel drops his hand and moves to his neck, hoping to somehow find a pulse there. Again, nothing. 

“No.” Gabriel examines the comte’s neck, hands sliding in still-warm blood. “No, no, no!” 

There are two incisions in his neck: a clean stab at the base of his skull, and another, more jagged cut running from his ear to his collarbone. He must have put up a fight against Marie. But it wasn’t enough. 

“Merde!” Gabriel stands, wipes his hands clean on an oriental carpet, and runs for the door. 

Marie couldn’t have made it far. She doesn’t know the palace well, and it's unlikely the group brought horses with them. If Gabriel gets his own horse from the stables, he should be able to catch them before they disappear into the forest. Or better yet, he’ll be able to catch them before they leave Versailles at all. He doesn’t care if Baptiste wants him dead, or if pursuing the group will endanger his own life. He can’t let them get away with murdering Jean’s father. He has to do something.