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

Chapter Forty-Three - 23. March. 1789



Lizabeth

It takes a moment for Lizabeth to register Maxime’s words, and even after she does, they are still so ridiculous, she’s convinced his panic is some sort of jest. Gabriel was stabbed, kidnapped, brought to a doctor’s house, all so François could find out he’s still alive and come for him anyway? And now, Gabriel’s chances are even worse. Now, he can barely stand, let alone fight for his life.

Marie pushes Maxime away, frowning. “That isn’t amusing.”

“Marie.” Maxime grabs hold of her shoulders, but she swats his hands away. “This is serious. We must leave now. If François finds out we helped Gabriel, he might kill us, too.”

“Maxime, is this true?” Jean says.

Maxime blinks a few times and glances around the room, finally seeming to notice that he and Marie have company. His frown grows more prominent with each face his eyes land on, but he doesn't say a word. Instead, he nods and runs a hand through his hair, dislodging a handful of sweat soaked strands from his queue.

“How much time until they arrive?” Gabriel asks from across the room.

He sits on the corner of the bed, legs hanging over the edge and feet touching the ground. Despite his upright, determined position, Lizabeth can tell from his slight grimace and the way his shoulders hunch that he’s in pain, though it’s impossible to tell how much. 

“I don’t know,” Maxime responds. “They were gathering weapons when I left the tavern. Though they might not know the quickest way to the doctor’s house, I didn’t have much of a head start.” He takes Marie’s hand and pulls her from the room. “We must go now.”

“We can’t just leave them here!” Marie protests.

“There are four of them.” Maxime tugs on her arm again. “They will manage fine without us.”

Marie yanks her wrist out of Maxime's grasp. “You can’t be serious. Gabriel is injured, Jean is an imbecile, Lizabeth is wildly unhinged, and this girl”—she points to Marguerite—“who even are you?”

Marguerite scoffs. “My name is Marguerite Alice d'Aumont, and my family has been nobility for nearly five hundred years.”

“My point is”—Marie rolls her eyes, turning back to Maxime—“if we leave them here to fend for themselves, someone is sure to die.”

Maxime groans. “What do you propose we do then?”

“Obviously we should take them with us! We know the quickest way out of Saint-Cloud, and we will have a much better chance at bringing a stop to those men if there are six of us.”

“But if we—”

“This isn’t the time for your arguments!” Marie snaps. “If it wasn’t for your ridiculous decision to bring Gabriel here in the first place, we wouldn’t be in this situation! Now, either we all go together, or you go alone. Without me.”

For a few moments, Maxime is silent. He clenches his jaw, flicking his eyes from one person to the next. Then, just as Lizabeth suspects he’s about to storm out of the house alone, he sighs. “There are some weapons belowstairs, and I have a pistol I took from Versailles. Perhaps that will be enough.”

“We’ll be fine. Let's quit this place before we’re discovered,” Jean says, his handsome face masked with urgency.

Jean walks over to the bed and sticks out his hand to help Gabriel up, but Gabriel swats it away. Lizabeth watches, wide-eyed, as Gabriel gets to his feet. Despite the small beads of sweat forming along his temples, he makes no noise other than an increase of labored breaths. Then he’s standing. His shoulders are hunched, and his hand subconsciously rests against his wound, but he’s upright nonetheless.