Christmas

It was Christmas Eve in Paris. Snow was falling over the City of Love, slow and steady without any sign of stopping, gathering in piles along the uneven cobblestone streets only to be trampled by horses plowing through the drifts, their breath rising in steamy clouds as the sound of their hooves clattered through the air. But the year this Christmas took place in was 1791, and Robespierre's Reign of Terror had already taken its iron grip about the nation. Armand St. Just found very little to be cheerful about this year despite the holiday.

Leaning against the outside post of a street sign, Armand glanced down for a final time at the pamphlet in his hands. Written by some American, some Thomas Paine, it was an appraisal of the French Revolution and pages after pages justifying it and what good it would do for the world. Armand hadn't the finances or the opportunity to study law or politics as he'd so often wanted to as a child, but what he did know from living in the heart of this revolution, experiencing it first-hand and not from another continent, proved that this entire pamphlet was wrong. Even if this republic did manage to work itself out and become a giant leap in the strive for democracy, what was the cost? Millions of innocents...oh, yes. Vivez, indeed. He could kick himself for supporting it in the first place...but not like this.

Armand tossed the pamphlet down into the snow and kicked it away, blowing on his hands to warm them as he turned to once again--for the millionth time that afternoon--glance across the street to the back of a recently decorated and well-kept theatre: the Comedie Francaise. The matinee performance should be ending soon, and at any moment his sister should be available for their usual walk home.

But Armand didn't like it. It was disconcerting enough that his sister was living with a man whom she was not married to yet claimed to love. Despite her being a free woman, society of the day was not willing to accept something so vulgar. If a man and a woman lived together, they should be wed, not just mere lovers. Custom and tradition were very hard things to break...a thing this Revolution was evidently proving. Armand had found it a strain within himself to accept his sister's actions. His sister: who was the older, sensible, level-headed one when they were children had done a complete turn-around as she reached that age of womanhood. She had taken up acting, a profession most thought unfit for a woman. She had dove headlong into this relationship with Paul Chauvelin, a die-hard student of the revolution. Armand had always been the rambunctious one then: getting into trouble, acting before thinking, but now it was he who seemed to be the more logical of the pair. How that had happened, the young Frenchman could only guess.

Yet he was worried. Marguerite was his sister, after all, and he had to understand her. Support her. Be there for her just as she was for him after their parents had died. He was sincerely trying... He would often bring up the question about Marguerite and Chauvelin, but she would never heed his worries. She called him silly, played the big sister who needn't be worried over. He couldn't understand what it was about the man that so captured her and held her to him loyally. Armand had noticed, ever since she'd met him, that Marguerite had become withdrawn. She lost contact with friends. She refused to speak of herself with optimism. He even found it difficult to find time with her. But...if that was what Marguerite truly wanted, then Armand was not going to hinder her with fraternal worries.

Armand was just considering digging up the trampled pamphlet and burning it for a bit of warmth against the cold winter afternoon when he saw, approaching down the sparsely-occupied street towards the back of the theatre, three young and able-bodied men. There was nothing unusual outwardly as they were dressed in typical bourgeoisie attire and talking among each other eagerly as close friends do. What drew Armand's attention was the printed bill they held among the three of them, staring eagerly at it as they stopped near the outside of the theatre's stage door. As narrow a street as it was, they were not but two paces away from where Armand waited and acknowledged his presence with a friendly nod.

"Good afternoon, Citizen," one of them began. "Waiting for someone as well?"

Armand nodded, standing up respectfully. The three men were young, but several years his senior and also towering over him in class when they were bourgeoisie and he was merely a peasant. Despite whatever ideas the Revolution pushed forward, equality and such, the class divisions still remained.

"I am, Monsieurs. My sister."

"Ahh, just as well," said another. "We were hoping to catch a glimpse of Mademoiselle St. Just."

Armand brightened, but said nothing to betray their relation. More of his sister's admirers, no doubt, as the bill they held was of the very show Marguerite was making her star performances in. The one thing she hadn't lost for certain, despite whatever choices she may have made elsewhere, was the entrancing hold Marguerite St. Just had over France and the majority of upper Europe. Some of the more refined people in seats of power saw her innovative profession as an intriguing step forward for women everywhere and took a great interest. Marguerite's wit, her beauty and charm, wove magic among the minds of the aristocracy of any nation she happened to meet. Armand never ceased to wonder.

"Devoted admirers as well?" he asked with a gentle laugh. The three of them grinned in such a way that made it fade.

"Yes, but more than that. You see," the seeming oldest of them said, lowering his voice. "We have a proposition for the young lady."

"Quiet, you fool!" said the last, who had spoken thus for the first time. He reached out to snatch the bill away from his companion. "Do you want to give everything away?"

"Come, come, now. What's the harm?"

"He could demand a share of the profits!"

The eldest eyed Armand up and down, his shoddy winter clothes mere rags compared to their heavy, richer coats, with the contempt one shows for a stray and dumb dog. "Him? A commoner? We've nothing to fear." He sniffed, wiping at his nose with a lace kerchief, and unaware of the growing dislike in the younger Frenchman he bragged on their intentions for when they met the young actress.

"You see, my boy, my companions and I have heard a rumor that Mademoiselle St. Just resides with a man here in Paris. A man she is not even betrothed to." A wicked laugh, during which Armand clenched a fist behind him. "Some investigating proves it to be true. Naturally, it is not proper for such a thing to be so. Surely the dear Mademoiselle's name would be tarnished by such a thing."

"So," one companion took up, "in order to keep her beautiful name safe, we were hoping to reach some kind of agreement."

"Blackmail?" Armand nearly choked on the word, wide-eyed in disbelief. The three only laughed.

"Of course," said the third. "It seems only logical. If we can't get the money from her, then we shall get it from the papers by selling them the information."

"Now, if you will excuse us, our actress awaits."

"No, wait!" Armand stepped forward eagerly, already reaching for his breast pocket. "Monsieurs. Citizens, please. Let me compensate you, instead. For your silence..." And from his pocket he withdrew a cloth bag, a bag that was small but heavy and bulging, jingling with coins as he held it aloft to them. The three of them were struck dumb by the hastiness of the proposition, the intensity and earnest in the young man's brown eyes. Nevertheless, they took the bag.

"Why do you offer such a thing?" one of them asked, opening the bag to check its contents. The valuable money was a beacon of warmth in the cold for their greedy minds. Armand turned his gaze down, unable to do anything but shrug.

"I am just a simple commoner with simple values, Monsieurs. Mademoiselle St. Just is my sister."

The three young men said nothing, to Armand or to each other, as they exchanged glances and then with a retying of the bag hurried away, mumbling among themselves at such a level Armand could not hear.

The young Frenchman remained where he was, feeling the sudden weight taken from his shirt pocket like an absence of his heart. That money had been intended for Marguerite all along, to buy her the grandest of gifts for Christmas in some hopes to bring her back to life. Now it was gone. Armand finally broke his gaze from the retreating forms of the three men and sighed, tearing himself away from the wave of regret by turning to face the stage door instead. He'd been saving since summer, working as he did on and off at the local printer's mill when he wasn't dallying in law and politics here and there. It had been his plan to surprise Marguerite that very afternoon. To begin their walk as usual but instead of going straight home to veer off, leaving his sister a moment to vanish and return with that gift...a dress he'd seen in a shop somewhere. Marguerite hadn't said outright she had wanted it, but the look in her eyes when they passed by was enough confirmation. That plan was shot...he may as well turn around and leave now...

Armand had begun to carry out that very plan of thought, hands shoved into the ratty pockets of his trousers, head lowered in shame as he walked down the deserted snow-lined alley, when a strong, sturdy voice hailed him from the very direction he was headed. A relatively high-pitched voice...with a distinctive English accent despite the French words.

"I say, young man!"

Armand looked up, eyes wide in surprise, expecting to see another set of blackmailers, revolutionary guards, anything except what came into his vision. A single man, dressed entirely too rich for the bourgeoisie French surroundings, was leaning out of the window of a stopped and equally rich-looking carriage at the end of the alley he had just recently been leaning at. Not wearing one of the powered wigs of the fashion day, the man's blonde hair and equally shining blue eyes were an astonishing sight to the young Frenchman, which could very well explain his silence and blank expression upon seeing the owner of the voice. The Englishman called again.

"Pardon me, lad, but it's not polite to gawk so."

Armand promptly shut his mouth, clasping his hands behind his back and looking down at the ground. He couldn't talk. Around the rich, intimidating, he always developed a stutter. A habit developed in his youth after Marguerite was sent of to the convent school and he was alone in Paris, after their parents' murder. He'd never felt so alone... It was years before he was able to go off on his own and find her again. That was a good day...

"You wouldn't happen to know the way to the English Embassy, would you, lad?" the English man brought Armand's eyes sheepishly back up. After a moment of flickering thought Armand turned to look out in the general direction of the Embassy: the direction the carriage was already pointed in.

"Th-th-that way, Monsieur," he mumbled, pointing. He figured that was the end of it. But Armand watched, mystified and alarmed, as the obvious aristocrat climbed out of his carriage with incredible ease and hopped out onto the street. Obviously a foreigner with not much sense! Didn't he know that aristocrats were fully blamed for the oppression of the poor people these days in France? The aristocrats who supported the king and the monarchy... Since the Revolution had turned into a literal bloodbath Armand had lost the faith he once held in it, but he still knew enough to see how it worked. If any commoners like him were bold enough to gather in the street and see the Englishman... But the other man didn't seem the least bit worried. He approached Armand with the trademark swift, educated walk, his cane tapping the street on the off beat. Armand felt himself shrink as the Englishman approached, his striking blue eyes gazing down from a towering height, and though when he smiled gently it was kind and warm the youth was still scared to death. Of course, then he spoke...

"I must say," he began, his tone though still relatively high-pitched soft as velvet, "that was a very brave thing you did."

"D-did, Monsieur?"

"I overheard your unfortunate conversation just a moment ago," the man went on, hands folded over his cane with his gaze focused down on Armand. "It's refreshing to see at least some people still have common, decent values in Paris these days."

Armand turned a bright red and looked at his feet. "It was nothing, Monsieur..." He then jerked in surprise as a gloved hand reached out to touch his shoulder and brought his face back to the Englishman's. Rather, more around the lacy frills at his chest. Standing at his own height Armand barely reached the other's jabot. The bright color of the man's royal blue overcoat was blinding: the red trim of his lapels, the white embroidered lace, the shiny leather black boots, the cane of polished wood and silver top, the overall air of elegance and luxury about his sturdy form. The hand on his shoulder gave a slight squeeze.

"It was everything, young man. I commend you."

Armand nodded, a gesture more like a proper bow. "Thankyou, Monsieur."

"And something else..."

Into Armand's hand was pushed something fat and leathery. He felt it a moment before looking at it, caught up as he was in the intricate designs of the man's dress, though when he finally brought his hand up he heard the jingle of coins that accompanied the small bag of money. Armand's dog-like brown eyes blinked in reaction that was only mental.

"To replace the blackmail you paid."

Armand's throat finally unlocked, and he held the pouch out. "No, no, Monsieur, I cannot accept this. It's too--"

The man only pushed it back. "Please, my boy, don't argue. You deserve it." Stepping back, the man touched the silver top of his cane to his forehead in a sign of salute--an aristocrat saluting a commoner!--and turned with a resolute silence to stride back to his carriage, climb in, and with a lash of the driver's whip disappear into the snow-laden city. He waved Armand a final gesture before pulling away, the youth having not moved from his spot, lips parted in protest that was silenced by astonishment. He didn't know how long he stood there before he heard the stage door to the Comedie Francaise opening, his sister's voice breaking through his dulled senses.

"Armand?" Marguerite St. Just's beautiful figure appeared through the door, her winter's shawl wrapped warmly around her, tassels streaming as she bounced out energetically to embrace him in a warm hug. "Oh, it feels so delightful out here after being on that hot stage in that awful costume! Gracious, Armand, I must look awful..." Drawing back from her brother's loving arms she saw the leather pouch in his hand and playfully reached out to touch it. "What's this?" She looked to his face imploringly, but saw there only a grin. A grin of knowing and brotherly devotion.

"Merry Christmas, Margot."