Heart's Revolution

Heart's Revolution
August 29, 1788, Paris, France

Maurice, Maurice, where are you?

A mere girl lay beneath a silent oak tree. Her blush rose gown was tattered, torn apart by dirt, blood, and tears. Her long auburn hair was immodestly unbound, and her breathing was shallow, for she feared the wrong noise would attract the wrong people... her father's soldiers....
Had it only been ten days ago that she was formally pronounced the heir to the French throne? And was it only three short days ago that she had run from the castle, lucky to have both love and life in hand? So few days....

* * * * * * *

It was August sixteenth, and, in the Chateau de Versailles (not far from Paris), the world was peaceful... in a very busy way. The imperial palace was bustling with servants, courtiers, and foreign royalty, all gathered by invitation of King Louis XVI. The celebration was an important one.... The dauphine, for the first time, would be formally introduced to the blue-blooded Parisians as the future queen of France, seeing as Louis and his queen, Marie, had no other children.

Soft music played, and the chandeliers sparkled like a million stars in the gilded sky. The mirrors caught and reflected every crystal rainbow, throwing them against King David, who was plucking his harp on a brocade tapestry. Greek gods rested among the clouds of the marble heavens above, observing as first a duchess, then a marquis, then a comte passed through the high archway. As the guests passed in and out of the salle de bal, the ballroom, a trumpet fanfare blew, and the king and queen appeared at the head of the stairs. Both of their majesties were clothed imperially, wearing cloth of gold and diamonds, dripping from every exposed limb and extremity.

“Friends, honored guests!” the king began, and the room grew completely silent. “Welcome. Let not the rumors of revolution damper your spirits on this, the greatest of all occasions. Lords and ladies, I give to you tonight... your future. Voila, la dauphine de France, Marie-Christine.” The horns sounded again and, as if by magic, she appeared at the head of the stairs.

She took her father's arm graciously, and began the long descent. The stairs seemed to be miles long, but as she walked, young Christine sparkled like a ray of sunlight. A gown of the purest virgin white satin was fitted around her slim, corseted waist, from which her skirts widened to encompass the fashionable hoops underneath. Woven into her upswept auburn hair were tiny diamond jewels, glittering under the crystal chandeliers. Clasped around her neck and dangling from her dainty ears were strands of diamonds. Her gown glimmered with golden embroidery, and her eyes flashed an emerald green. Her dainty feet carried her to the bottom of the marble staircase, where she outshone every woman and her jewels, save those of her mother, the queen.

Christine's eyes darted back and forth. Her father had chosen to announce her betrothal tonight as well, and she was very much afraid. She knew who had been chosen, and had signed the contract. But she had never met the man... her betrothal ceremony was carried out by proxy. Only tonight would she see which old man was the Comte de Marseilles, the man who would soon rise in name, power, and fortune as her husband, the future king of France.

She was almost at the bottom of the stairs, and no one was there... No one was greeting her, beckoning to her... She struggled to keep the innocent smile dancing on her ruby lips as she desperately searched the sea of faces before her. Her heart pounded quickly, and she felt her ankles shake with nerves.

Then, stepping from the shadows to greet her, stood a man all in white. A golden crown rested upon his golden curls, and his brown eyes seemed to crinkle up in a smile when he saw his future bride. He was young, and few wrinkles marred his kind face. From what Christine could see, he was handsome... very handsome. He held out his hand and, bowing, took her from her father. The orchestra struck up a slow waltz, and they began to dance. They spun, swirled, and whipped around the room, until the other courtiers joined them and the room became a kaleidescope of whirling, wild colors, shimmering in the light of a million lamps.

“Your highness,” the comte whispered as he led the exhausted girl from the throng, “Shall we retire to l'orangerie?” He indicated the immense orange gardens outside Versailles.

“Oui, merci,” she said gratefully. Her feet made no sound as they passed through la Galerie de Glaces, and the huge mirrors glimmered and reflected every single jewel that she wore. The night was dark, but stars shown brightly in the sky above, illuminating the footpaths beneath the greenery. When they finally reached the innermost gardens, she sat upon a bench beneath the shrubbery. “Would you fetch me a glass of ale, Monsieur le Comte?” she asked softly.

“Call me Philippe, my lady. After all, we will soon be husband and wife,” he said, kneeling before her to kiss her gloved hand. She smiled as she was taught, but the minute he rose and left her side, her smile turned upside down. The man had been too familiar with her, as though she were a common broad rather than the future queen of the country! She had been raised to believe that she was the most important person in the realm, and this fool kissed her hand! What kind of count was he? A poor commoner who simply came into power through a great-aunt or some other deceased relative? Why had her father chosen him, of all men?

She had finally gotten a good look at the man that she was to wed and bed, and he was not as handsome or as young as he originally appeared. His blond hair was streaked with gray, and he had wrinkles all over his face, covered only by those hideously fashionable beauty marks. He was not as tall as he seemed, either, although every man seemed like a giant to the small princess.

“Psst!”

Christine turned suddenly, her heart pounding. She was unescorted in the innermost gardens of le parc, and anything could happen if the guards happened to fall asleep on duty... She jumped at the sound of a snapping twig amongst the trees. “Who is there?” she called, willing her voice to still.

“Me!” the voice came again.

“Who's 'me'?” she whispered in response. She glanced around anxiously. It certainly wasn't Comte Philippe... his voice was light and airy, like a child's. This voice rumbled and groaned, thundering in her ears and making her heart jump, although the sounds issuing forth were only whispers. “Come hither!” she said, standing and drawing herself to her full height as she had been taught. Her white gown brushed the ground, soiling the hem a bit. “Come, I command you!”

“Command! Who are you to command me?” the voice said again.

“I am the princess of France! How dare you contradict me?” she cried angrily. “I could have your head chopped off and served for the Assumption Feast if I wished!”

He (for the voice was undoubtedly male) laughed, a harsh, scorning laugh. “Try. Try to catch me.” he taunted. Christine gasped. In all of her training, she had never learned how to deal with insolent men when there were no guards about.

“Oh, I'm afraid you leave me no choice!” she growled through gritted teeth, “PLEASE come out!” He laughed again, and soon she heard a scuffle from beneath the bush. Her heart pounded, and her stomach flip-flopped inside of her as he stood before her. He was a god... Tall and strong... his muscles bulged beneath the holey tunic that he wore. His hair was dark, but his eyes were a poignant ice-blue, flickering with a cold fire that seemed to calm when he caught sight of her. He was dirty, but the dust only served to emphasize his roman features. She found herself struggling to keep her composure as she looked up at him. He was so close to her...

He was much taller than she was, and he looked like he could break anyone in half at any moment. But there was something in his eyes, a look of courage and bravery that she had never seen before. His courage was not covering his cowardliness, but rather striving to hold back a look of kindness and generosity for his fellow men... and women.

“Ah, there you are, my love!” Christine turned, and the man dove back beneath the shrubs. Lovely timing, dear, she sighed to herself. Philippe handed her a glass of champagne, pausing as his fingers brushed hers.

“Your love?” she whispered, a bit taken aback.

He laughed harshly. “Of course. We are to be husband and wife, no?”

“No. Not yet. I am still young, monsieur le Comte. It will be at least a year before we will be wed. There are a million things to plan! There's the sewing to be done, I need a trousseau! There's cooking, cleaning, learning...” With every word, he was coming closer. Her tongue quickly became tied, and she swallowed hard, searching for more to say. His horrible breath was on her neck now, and she suddenly found herself tripping over the marble bench, only to be caught by his rough hands.

“You are a nobleman, sir! How dare you? Take your hands off of me!” she screamed. His thick lips cut her scream short, as he held her to the bench. She could not move away, she could not cry for help! God, help me! Holy Mother, be with me now! I'll say so many Hail Maries tonight, I promise, she prayed in her mind. Nothing happened. The count's hands were all over her face, and she feared his indecency would not stop there...

“What do you think you're doing to the lady?” the dark man asked quietly. Philippe ignored him. “Don't pretend I'm not here, monsieur.” Still, he held her. The dark god was becoming angry...
The punch that was thrown echoed throughout the inner courtyard, and Philippe stood quickly, glowering in stunned silence. Christine's breath caught in her chest, tears straining to ruin her imperial composure. Another punch flew through the air, and, with a great thud, the beast fell at her feet.

“Come, my lady. We have no time to waste here.” She was frozen to the spot. She could not move...

Her head felt light, and she felt herself sway in the sudden breeze. She tried to right herself, but, before she knew what was happening, fell in a graceful swoon... right into the arms of her dusty hero.

* * * * * * *

“My lady,” he whispered as he gently lay her on the straw cot in his cottage. “Lady Christine, please wake up.” She looked like an angel in her sleep. He had to resist the urge to kiss her, but with every breath, it grew harder. Everything about her was ethereal, from the way her eyes twitched as though she dreamed to the way her auburn hair framed her ivory face with rays of sunshine to the way she sighed in her sleep. He glanced around. He should not have brought her here. She would awaken and be frightened... better that he be gone, lest she think he had done something untoward. But, as he turned to leave, his heart began to break. Mon ange, he thought to himself. My angel. One kiss, just one, wouldn't do any harm. He turned back, his palms growing clammy. Her beauty beckoned to him, and he knelt, taking just one of her dainty hands in his rough, overworked paws. He leaned forward and their lips touched... briefly, but they touched.

She stirred, and he jumped back. Oh no! Now I've awakened her! But the princess did not open her eyes. He took it as a sign from God that he was to leave, and hurried out the door.

“Maurice!” a call came from the alley beyond the house. He looked around quickly, and then dashed across.

“Maurice, did you do it?” a tall, skinny youth asked excitedly. “We've been waiting all evening! Did you get the princess?”

Maurice nodded. “Yes, she's in the house. I'm still not sure this is a very good idea, Francois. Someone could get hurt... a lot of people could get hurt.”

“What? Maurice, those blue-blooded pigs deserve to get hurt. Our families deserve to eat. We deserve to live better lives than they give us the chance to. They're just people.”

“Yes, but you haven't seen her...”

“Her? Her who? The dauphine? She is just another one of them. Please tell me you haven't fallen for her charms like the rest of the world has. We need you to lead us, Maurice! You know best!”

Maurice sighed and ran his hand through his thick, black hair. “I will lead, Francois, but I will not see an innocent young woman harmed.”

“Ha, going soft, Maurice?” another young man entered the conversation. He strutted through the dank alley, his head held high.

“You are very funny, Guillaume. Very funny. No, I'm just protecting the innocence of a young woman. Don't you realize, gentlemen, that she could be our chance?” A look of puzzled amusement crossed the faces of the other two men. Maurice sighed and sat on the ground. “Listen, it is not hard to understand. Marie-Christine Sophie-Marguerite, the dauphine, is the most important girl in all of France. She is also the most well-loved by the aristocracy. We kidnap her, and we suddenly have all of the noblemen in Paris, Marseilles, Dijon, and every other city in France sending their soldiers after us in search of their 'lady princess.' This was originally the plan. We would hold her ransom until they came and saw the way we lived. But! If the princess herself sees this ditch that we call home, perhaps she'll come to realize that life is not only parties and princes, new gowns and diamonds. So, we return her to the palace, she fights for us against the aristocracy, and suddenly, we began to see changes. Don't you understand? No one will die this way.”

Blank expressions covered the faces of the two younger men. “I suppose,” Francois said, but the lines of confusion on his forehead said otherwise. “So, we have to return her to the palace after we give her a tour of the grandest places in Paris?”

“Yes! Bravo, Francois.” He glanced back at the tiny cottage. “Where are the rest of the men?” he asked anxiously. “We're missing Antoine, Jean, Marc, and, oh, who's the other one... I always forget his name...”

“Raoul,” Guilluame supplied.

“Ah, yes, Raoul. Guillaume, have you heard from Enjolras or Marius on the other side of the city?”

“Yes, they are ready to march if necessary, and will gladly welcome us to their side of Paris if we need a place to stay.”

“Good.” He sighed. “Now, gentlemen, I must go check on our prize. Relay the new plan of attack to the other gentlemen and make sure that Marius and Enjolras know.” He turned, leaving them in the dust.

As he hurried back across the street, he shook his head. I understand that they are new to revolution, but something must be done, and this is the perfect situation! he thought. He paused in the door to catch his breath before going in to the frightened young woman, but when he opened his eyes, his breath caught in his throat. She was gone!

* * * * * * *

What happened? Christine woke up just to see Maurice disappear beyond the door. She sat up swiftly, her heart pounding in her chest. Where am I? The tiny house was dank and dingy, and she could hear rats fighting over a crumb of bread in the corner. She flung herself from the bed and out the door, running blindly past the house and many huts after it. When she finally stopped, she was completely lost.

People huddled in dark corners heard her rush by and began to gather around her when she paused to catch her breath. Their clothes were torn and shabby, their faces grim and dirty, although incredibly curious. Christine couldn't help but notice the little boy who peered from his mother's filthy skirts to peek at the glorious, albeit dirty, princess. She knelt in the dirt, ignoring the tears that had stained her dress. “Bonjour,” she whispered, holding her hand out to the little one. He shrunk back into his mother's skirts again, but glanced out at her with a sheepish smile.
Her heart ached for the poor little boy – he couldn't have been more than two – and she felt tears come to her eyes as she watched him. “Je m'appelle Marie-Christine,” she said in her simplest French, hoping that someone would state their name in return. She rose and looked around at the quiet circle that had gathered about her.

“We know,” a young woman said harshly, a glint of anger in her hazel eyes. She crossed her arms over her protruding stomach protectively, as if to shield the child she so obviously carried. Others in the little group nodded in agreement, some more cautious and frightened than angry. Christine shrank back, and her heart jumped fiercely and suddenly from her breast to her throat.

“What's the matter?” she whispered. “What have I done?” She stared at them, and the space between them shrank as they pulled closer and closer to her.

“Look at that dress!” the same woman said fiercely. “You could have fed an entire town with the money it took to make that fancy dress. Your earrings alone could've built a city. But, no. You, your highness, spend your time in fancy palaces, dancing and dining with princes and kings while we starve. We're people, just like you. And we need to live.” An angry tear suddenly slipped from her eye, and she began to yell to cover her sobs, “This is the third child I've tried to raise, and, God help me, I've lost every one of them! I starve, and my baby does too. Look around you, Princess!” she screamed. “Look at the faces of your people! We're hungry, we have no clothing!” She scooped the little boy into her arms and thrust him at the girl. “Look at Jean-Phillippe. He has never talked. He's three, and he has never spoken. He has never laughed. He has never cried - because of you. Because of your dress. Because of your palace,” she seethed maliciously.
Christine was crying now, her tears watering the dry dirt beneath them. She took the little boy in her arms, cradling him to her. He snuggled close to her bosom, and her heart broke in two. Her shaking fingers stroked Jean-Phillippe's tiny brow, and she wept. “I never knew,” she whispered. “Surely my father the king knows nothing of your poverty. Something could be done.”

“Christine!” a voice cried in the distance. “Marie-Christine, your highness!” She rose and turned in the direction of the deep male voice. She knew who was coming, she had heard nothing but his voice in her head since she first met him.

He broke the crowd, a veritable giant above the women. “Christine, what are doing here?” he asked. Somewhere in the back of her head, she wondered why he was being so familiar... and so concerned. “You could've been hurt.”

She dried her tears. “Yes, I suppose I could have.” She looked up at him, and, surprisingly, was unafraid. An unexplainable sensation had come over her when she saw his form, when she heard his voice, and she felt oddly drawn to the him. Her words came to her as a sigh, “I didn't though.” Marie-Christine, you are a fool. Mother always warned you about people like these. Rough, pathetic peasants. They have no right nor reason to live, except to pay our taxes.

But they have no money to pay with. They have nothing...

“Please, monsieur, I'd like to go home.” He'll never let me go.

“Are you taking Jean-Phillippe with you?” he asked, and she thought she saw a hint of a smile play on his lips.

“Oh!” she cried, and gave the little boy back to his mother with an apologetic smile. The older woman looked at her strangely when she took her child, and Christine did not want to let him go. He had dozed off in her arms, and now that they were empty, they felt heavy and cumbersome to her. She tried to shake the feeling, wondering what was happening to her. “Now may we go?”

“Perhaps. Come.” He placed a hand on her back, and she felt a chill skitter up and down her spine. She closed her eyes, praying that when she opened them, she would be in the ballroom, believing everything that her parents had ever told her about the common people. But the strong hand on her back did not move, and the faces of those people did not fade...

“Monsieur?” She stopped, turning to look at him. “Monsieur, what can I do to help you?”

He, too, stopped. “What do you mean?”

“I want to help. I want to tell my parents about you, about the poverty that has obviously taken over France. I want to do my part. Monsieur, how can I live in Versailles when my people (or the people who will someday be mine to rule) stay here and suffer? What kind of ruler would I be if I allowed that to happen?”

Silence suddenly ruled supreme in the street. She waited for his answer, and when it came, it was softer than a summer's breeze. “Please call me Maurice, Christine.” He paused again, as if he didn't know what to say. When finally he spoke, his voice was strangled, as if he were trying not to cry. “My lady,” he whispered, “When I began this, I thought it would be easy. I would lure you, kidnap you, or somehow rescue you from the palace and hold you for ransom.” He sighed. “You've not made it that simple. I never dreamed that you would be so sweet. I thought you were another careless snob. I thought... so many things. Now I can think only one thing, that if your parents are like you in any way, then this will not be hard. Not if they are as gentle, as kind, as beautiful...” he stopped, tripping over the words that spilled from his mouth.

Christine stared at him, finding herself mesmerized and intrigued by the emotions that poured forth from Maurice's honest soul. “Maurice, will you come with me? Come talk to my father. He will listen to you.” She touched his arm lightly, reveling in this sweet, precious, new feeling that came over her every time she was near him. She was wondering what would happen if... Christine, you don't dare! You're not a common harlot, you don't... She couldn't resist any longer. As she gazed into his deep, unending eyes, she realized that he had his arms around her and apparently had the same idea that she did...

Their lips met in a blaze of passion and glory that would've made Aphrodite envy them, and suddenly Christine didn't care that Maurice was a mere peasant, or that she had a wealthy fiance waiting for her at the palace. All she wanted was to be held by her dark god for the rest of her days, and she knew that he felt the same way about her. She wanted to be with him forever...

* * * * * * *

It was not possible. She had to go back to the palace. She went with a heavy heart, bidding Maurice good-bye with a tender kiss and promising to meet him soon.

The glimmering diamonds and gold of the palace did not seem like home to her anymore. She had only been gone for five days, but already the sparkle and glitter seemed foreign. You've spent too much time in the gutters, Christine, she thought, but she knew she was wrong. She lived in a magnificent house that could've housed half the population of Paris, while those poor people shivered in the cold of the oncoming night with nothing but the clothing on their backs. It was wrong, and she hated it.

She had spent every ounce of her time away with Maurice and his mother in their little hut, and, while nothing untoward had happened between them, she blushed and smiled every time she thought of those precious hours with them. They were kind, genuine people who merely wanted a chance to live! And she was going to give it to them.

As she walked through the Hall of Mirrors, she paused to glance at herself. Her ladies of the chamber had immediately set to work combing her long, unruly hair and lacing her into a clean gown of palest rose that made the blush of her cheeks even rosier. She felt like a traitor for wearing the fancy things, and marveled that the things she had grown up with and had loved were now disgusting and frightening to her. But! When one meets with the king and queen, one must be presentable...

And presentable she was. She waited patiently outside her father's grande salon while one of his lords announced her, not knowing if he would be happy to see her or angry that she had disappeared. She looked at the hallway through new eyes. The gold looked bizarrely overdone, as would a golden carriage outside Maurice's home. The gods who had once seemed to frolic now looked like lost, lonely children in the painted wisps of cloud floating above her head. They seemed to weep for the people as she did, knowing that they could do nothing while stuck in the ceiling.

“My lady, his majesty will see you now.” the lord announced, reappearing. She took a deep breath and raised her head high.

“My lord,” she whispered as she bent in a deep curtsy to her father.

“Yes, child?” he asked, motioning for her to rise. “I have not seen you around the palace of late. Have you been ill?”

She gasped. “No, mon pere, I have been away for over a week! I've been in Paris, Papa, and I must speak to you of urgent matters.”

“Child, you have such an imagination. You must learn to tame it, or your husband may find you dull.” He scratched himself with his perfectly manicured hands.

“I have not imagined a thing.” Her gaze became steely and fierce. She remembered how she had felt when Georgette had screeched at her in the middle of the street that first day, and how afraid she had been. She remembered the looks of despair of the peoples' faces, how hopeless they seemed, and she became angry. “Papa, your people are starving. They hate you, your majesty. Some want to kill you! I would not blame them, seeing how they live, if I did not know that you want the best for your realm. The people need you. They march and plan, Papa, and will soon come to kill all that we know if you do not do something!”

“They are just peasants, Christine. Commoners. What do I care of their plans and marches? I am the king! They cannot touch me.”

“Do you not care for them at all? Do you not care for me?” She began to weep. “Do you not care for the people that I love? If you do not care for them for yourself, can you not bring yourself to care for them because of me?”

The king looked his daughter in the eye. “Christine, you are too young to care about such things. Someday you will be queen, and then you will understand. Such things happen, and must be dealt with in the proper fashion. I have already sent soldiers to do away with those pathetic young men who think that they can do what they please. I have sufficiently squashed all rumors of revolution as my guards have squashed the heads of the common fools.”

“What?” she whispered. She felt sick, and her breath would not come to her. Maurice! her heart cried. “Please tell me you're lying, Father.”

“I don't see what you are so upset about, Christine. They are just people! Would you sacrifice your jewels to feed their children? Would you give your gowns to the poverty-stricken whores who run rampant in the streets? I think not.”

“Yes, I would,” she whispered. Tears clogged her throat, and she tried not to think of Maurice lying dead in a ditch somewhere.

“What?” The king's voice turned sharp. “You've changed, Marie-Christine. You've changed a lot in the past few days. Where is my obedient daughter who spends hours every day brushing her hair? What happened to my little beauty?”

“I am not little anymore. And I do not care to be a belle for any man, save one. I plan to be married, Father, and not to the Comte de Marseilles."

“Cease this babbling at once, young woman!” his words sliced through the air like a rapier. “I will have no more talk of disobedience to the crown! You marry whom I say, when I say, and you do not interfere with matters of the crown. You are not the crown! You are not king! I rule this court, and I will do what I please with the people I rule over!”

“No.” Christine's voice was quiet. It was no more than a whisper, but the king's angry words lost all power when compared to its burning passion. “No, you are not all that you think yourself. You are weak, Father, and I know now you are wrong. You always have been.”

“Christine...”

“Let me finish! I am leaving. I will not be your princess as long as you continue to treat the rest of the world like dirt beneath your silk-covered feet. You may wear the crown, but all of the gold in the world will never buy you happiness. Your majestic palace will never buy you the peoples' joy and pride. They will hate you as long as you continue to hide away in this gilded cage, throwing parties and seducing young ladies of the court into being your mistresses. No. They will hate you, and Father, I will stand with them. Now, I am through. Summon your guards if you must. But I will leave, one way or another. My daughter's heart loves you, mon pere, but my mind and the rest of who I am will never cease to fight against you and the dreadful tyranny that you command here.” She paused, praying that she would not weep.

“Good-bye, Papa,” she whispered, turning on her heel and leaving his chambers and his life forever.

Maurice waited for her in the place they had agreed upon, in the park where they had first met. She prayed the whole way that he had not been caught by the soldiers, and when she knelt by the bench and saw his familiar eyes, she wept with relief. And he held her tight, vowing once again that he would never let her go. Their brief reunion ended with an alert from the watchtower.

“Guards!” a cry echoed across the vast grounds like a roar, “The king has ordered the princess's capture and swift return... dead or alive! Find her!”

Maurice and Christine looked at each other. “Christine, my dear, shall we run for our lives?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, let's.” Footsteps began to come towards them, and they ran as quickly as they could. Leaves crackled. Branches snapped. They couldn't conceal themselves anywhere! There was nowhere to go!

Then all sound stopped. They were outside the palace, escaped without knowing through Maurice's favorite secret passage. “Maurice, I thought you were dead!” Christine whispered, her chest heaving from the run. Maurice crushed her to him, running his fingers through her loose hair.

“Never, my love.”

“Just hold me,” she murmured, beginning to sob gently. “Hold me, and never let me go...”
And he did just that. He held his love closer than he had ever held her before, stroking her brow with his callused fingers. It was not until they both calmed down that Christine saw where she was, and when she did, she let out a little cry. “Maurice!” the sound was softer than the cry of a kitten. He looked where she pointed, and his heart plummeted.

They lay in the middle of an alley. This was no surprise to Maurice, but he had never seen the place as it was now....

Blood stained the dirt at their feet. All around them, innocent people lay slain. The young revolutionaries Francois and Guillaume lay on the ground by their wives, their expressions protective and brave to the end. Blood pooled from the gaping wounds in their chests, and bones stuck through the punctured skin. Flesh seemed to hang from the faces and bodies of other young men who had been mercilessly slain. But the most heart-wrenching murder was the one that lay beneath a pile of dead women. There, with its tiny hand outstretched to the world, the unborn child of the woman Georgette reached for the life that it would never know. The tiny fingers were perfectly formed as they reached towards the light, life, and love that it would never know.

Maurice wept. He wept for his friends, for the women, for the innocent children who had done nothing wrong. His tears mingled with the blood on the ground, and the dirt became even muddier. His mother was dead, too. She died trying to protect Georgette and her child...
“Father,” Christine whispered knowingly, kneeling beside Maurice. Her face, too, was streaked with tears. She could speak no more.

Somewhere, a child was crying. Somewhere, a little one had survived. Where? She could not tell. But she rose and stepped carefully and reverently over the dead mother and her baby. There was one who might still be saved and loved. There was one...

Jean-Phillippe. The silent child was speaking to her heart, and she heard his voice loud and clear. “Jean?” she whispered, fearing to disturb the dead about her feet. The cry grew louder, and she stepped over a few more corpses. Antoinette. Jeanette. Sophie. They were all there. Dead.
Still, the child wept. It did not take long to find him... On the very edge of the street lay Anne, and, weeping into his dead mother's skirts, was Jean. He was covered in his mother's blood from head to toe, and his cry was hoarse. He had cried for many hours...

Christine knelt, and his cries became sobs. “Come, my child,” she whispered, lifting him into her arms. Maurice still knelt on the ground by his deceased friends. But Christine, surveying the field of the dead, felt more hope than despair. She would bury them all, but the spirit of truth, honesty, and justice that they stood for would rise again. No sword could cut the throat of freedom – ever.

* * * * * * *

As she lay beneath the tree, trying to keep Jean from babbling, she began to hum softly. It was just a simple song, a marching song that she had heard Maurice sing. It had come from the revolutionaries in Marseilles as they marched from their city to her Paris... She could hear it sung in the distance, and her heart sang with her. “Alons, enfants de la Patrie. La jour de gloire est arrive!” Arise, children of the fatherland. The day of glory has come.