Marguerite

It was an exciting opening night of a new play at the National Theatre; one couldn’t guess the horrors that occurred mere hours ago in the city square, one would not notice the injustice being performed even now on a secluded Parisian street. All eyes were on the radiant Marguerite St. Just, the darling of Paris, the ‘cleverest woman in Europe,’ and perhaps the most adored actress of that tumultuous age.

The curtains closed to end the first act, then opened again to many cheers. Marguerite took a bow. As the curtains closed again, Marguerite’s longtime friend and fellow actress, Jeanne-Louise Langé, rushed up to her, calling her name.

“It’s Armand,” Jeanne-Louise said breathlessly. “He’s hurt.”

“Hurt?”

“The man outside with the carriage wants us to go with him. What do we do?”

Marguerite picked up her skirts and marched in the direction of her dressing room. “I must go to him at once.”

Jeanne-Louise grabbed her arm to stop her. “What about the rest of the play?” she asked frantically.

“My dear Jeanne-Louise,” Marguerite said, placing her hands on her friend’s shoulders. “This is the chance every understudy dreams of.”

Jeanne-Louise’s eyes widened and she shook her head. “No. I can’t. I’m not ready!”

“You’ll be superb!” said Marguerite earnestly. She kissed Jeanne-Louise’s cheek. “But not too superb, I trust.” Her joking countenance fell and seriousness replaced it. “Quick now, into your costume! I must hurry to Armand!”

“Marguerite!” Jeanne-Louise called, but Marguerite didn’t turn back. Her mind was flooded with thoughts of Armand. She couldn’t help but wonder: how badly was he hurt? What had happened to him? What was she to do?

Armand was the only family Marguerite had left. Their parents had died when they were quite young, and they had to act as parents to each other. The hardship of growing up on the streets, of only having each other to rely on, created a bond deeper than any words could tell. He was her home—her father, brother, and friend. She was mother, sister, and friend to him. How would she manage if Armand were to—

Marguerite shook her head to dismiss the thought. Armand would be fine. He always was, despite his penchant for getting himself into trouble. Marguerite had reached her dressing room; she quickly changed from her costume into a simple white gown. Throwing on her cloak and gloves, she rushed from her dressing room out of the theatre and into the street where an unfamiliar man was waiting for her.

“Marguerite St. Just?” he asked.

“Yes,” Marguerite replied.

The man opened the carriage door and pulled down the step. Marguerite seated herself immediately. The step came up, the door was closed, and they were off through the dark streets of Paris. It felt like a lifetime before they reached the small inn cramped between towering buildings along a cracked trottier.

The man opened the carriage door, pulled down the step, and steadied Marguerite with a hand upon her arm as she alighted, but she hardly noticed his touch. Her mind was on her brother alone. She rushed inside, her heart racing. Armand was seated in a chair, facing the fireplace. In the fire’s light, Marguerite could see the bruises and cuts on Armand’s swelling face. A woman, likely the innkeeper’s wife, was tending to him. She finished fussing about Armand and gave Marguerite space to be with her brother.

“My poor Armand,” Marguerite said gently, kneeling by his side. She grasped his hand in hers; he clung to her with affection. “What happened to you?”

Armand groaned, moreso from the memory than from his current pain. “Two men… out of the darkness… if it hadn’t been for this gentleman…”

He looked to the side; Marguerite followed his gaze. There was a small room to the left, wide open without a door. A man clad in grey sat at a small table with a single candle and an ornate walking stick on top, holding a glass of cognac in his hand. Lace cascaded from his wrists. Either he didn’t hear Armand or he didn’t care, for he simply sat where he was, engrossed in examining his cognac. By the looks of him, he was very wealthy. Marguerite did not believe in the charity of the rich, but she also did not believe in judging a man before she knew him.

“My brother and I are indebted to you, Monsieur,” she said kindly. The man made no movement. “Monsieur?”

Finally, the man stood from where he was, putting down his glass and tucking his walking stick under his arm. “Sir Percy Blakeney, Mademoiselle,” he said with a heavy English accent and a flourishing bow. As he rose from his bow, his eyes caught Marguerite’s, and he stared at her strangely. “Although, anyone would have done as much,” he said, his voice suddenly soft.

“If you believe that, Monsieur,” Marguerite replied, “then you do not know Paris well.” Yet what else could be expected from an Englishman?

Marguerite returned her gaze to her brother. He was still holding her hand, like an infant with its mother. “Who were these men that attacked you, my darling?” she asked.

“They were sent by the Marquis de St. Cyr,” Armand replied. “I recognize his carriage.” He groaned in pain. “No doubt to teach me a lesson.”

“As God as my witness,” Marguerite said hotly, “one day I will repay the Marquis for this.” She remembered the Englishman who was simply standing in quiet, and she calmed her countenance. “Come, my darling, we must get you up to bed.” She stood up but Armand remained seated, their hands still locked together. “Do you think you can?” Marguerite asked with new concern.

Sir Percy and the man from the carriage helped Armand to his feet, and he finally released his sister’s hand. “Thank you,” he said to the two men. “I’m quite all right now.”

Sir Percy’s hand left Armand’s arm and caught Marguerite’s hand as she pulled it away from her brother. If her hand wasn’t gloved, she would have considered this a much graver breech of decorum. The Englishman was still staring at her quite intensely. “Rather a harsh lesson,” he remarked softly. “I trust the offense warranted the punishment.”

“My brother is young and hot-blooded, Monsieur,” Marguerite replied. “His heart too often leads his head. I fear he had the impudence to fall in love with St. Cyr’s daughter.”

“Is love, too, a crime in France these days?” Sir Percy took a step closer, his eyes never once breaking with hers. Marguerite realized they were completely alone. This man was bold—but so was she.

“Only if the lady is an aristocrat,” she answered, “whose father considers a simple bourgeois not fit to breathe the same air that they do.” Marguerite turned quickly. She was getting angry, and she didn’t want to direct that anger at the man who saved her brother, aristocrat or not. “If you will excuse me, I must attend to my brother,” she said simply, walking toward the bedroom.

“Wait!” Percy cried, moving toward her again. “When will I see you again?” He was once again as close as he was before. Marguerite examined his face curiously. He was so persistent yet so earnest.

Marguerite was no stranger to men’s attention. She knew she was beautiful: voluminous auburn curls that shone reddish-gold in the sunlight, a regal bearing born of grace and self-confidence, a low voice with a musical intonation. She had this man fawning over her like many others in the past. What harm would it do to indulge him?

“My brother and I are having a small soirée at our home,” Marguerite said, “in the Rue de Richelieu—Sunday next, if you are free.”

His eyes lit up. “For such an invitation, Mademoiselle, I shall make myself free.”

“Sunday next then.” Marguerite resumed her trek to the bedroom but paused and turned around to give her apartment number: “Number 27.”

With one last look, she caught the image of a man standing as still as a statue, his eyes fixed on her in total adoration.