The Scarlet Clover

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I was ten when he started my lessons, and it didn’t take long for me to learn how to wield the family sword, which had been passed down from generation to generation along with how to use it. The tradition was to pick one child and train them, my grandfather had been chosen, and so had my papa, and my papa had chosen me. The others didn’t know about it, good thing too, Maria probably would have screamed her head off if she had learned I was the one papa had chosen.

After I learned how to use the sword, I learned how to use papas rifle. That took a little more practice, the thing never felt right, it was awkward and heavy. But I wanted to make papa proud more than anything in the world. So I trudged through the lessons as best I could, beating back the sore arms, and the strained, throbbing eyes.

One by one I mastered all the different weapons my papa threw at me that had been hidden away in our house for years. I never thought of complaining once fearing papa would quit the lessons altogether. For eight years that was my biggest fear, not if I would starve, or freeze, or even being murdered. For those long years nothing else mattered, nothing at all, just those lessons.

It was about the time my lessons stopped that the horrible events started. We thought nothing would come from it, as most did, we just thought it was a little rebellion. Surely King Louis would fix it all in a matter of time, my brother had been named Louis because of his father. And he was shaping up to be just as good or better, his nickname was the sun king after all. My family, despite being poor as dirt, were huge fans of the royal family, unlike the rest of France.

For about a year the only thing that happened around were I lived was the slow trickle of news, and fast traveling gossip. There was rumors that the king had been removed from the thrown, but of coarse that was just a rumor. There was more about a man called Citizen Robespierre, a hero to all the rebels, who called him “The Incorruptible”, but his enemies called him “Dictateur Sanguinaire” or Bloodthirsty Dictator, (doesn’t that just have a nice ring to it). When papa heard of this he immediately burst into laughter, “they’ve got to be joking, its not even remotely possible that this could happen in a million years.”

But it was possible, and it was happening. My family was in shock after the news of the storming of Bastille reached our town. Our nearest neighbor, Jean d’Artois, had been there. Jean was a artist, one of the best for miles, and had been sketching some of the buildings when the rioting broke out. He immediately stopped drawing buildings and started sketching the rioters. Then to his horror he saw it, and fighting down the urge to vomit he did his best work ever.

He rushed back to town and immediately came to our house. It was midnight and everyone was fast asleep, resting for the hard day of work that lay ahead. The banging woke me up immediately, I jerked up and stared at the door. The banging had stopped, so I thought it had just been a dream. But before I could lay back down the banging started again, along with Jean’s screaming of “reveiller, reveiller”, “wake up, wake up.” Strange with all the racket no one else was awake, I leaned over and started to shake Marguerite. She groaned and pushed my hand away, but then set up. “Who’s at the door in the middle of the night” she groaned. “I think its Jean d’Artois”. It was about then that everyone else woke up, most of them grumbling and moaning.

But as soon as papa woke up, everyone knew it. Papa wasn’t a morning person by all means, he was always in a foul mood then and made sure everyone else was too. He slammed his fist down on the ground, and let out a ferocious yell. “WHO DARES COME WAKE ME UP AT THIS TIME OF THE NIGHT!” he boomed. The knocking immediately stopped, and so did the yelling. “WHO IS IT” papa hollered, “I…its me, Jean d’Artois, I…I’m sorry to wake you up, b…but its important” he stuttered.

Papa stood up and lumbered to the door, still half asleep. He swung open the door, and glared at Jean. He threw his finger in Jeans face, and started to yell, but he stopped when he saw his face. “What…what’s so important that you had to come here now” papa moaned rubbing his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I had to come tell you, did you hear about the horrible events that happened in Bastille, they decapitated the Marquis Bernard de Launay, then…” he paused “then they placed his head on a spike and paraded it around, oh it was horrible I’ve never seen anything like it, oh but that was just the beginning.”

I had heard everything and as appalling as it was I was oddly curious. I slowly walked over and stood behind papa. Standing at the doorway was a pale Jean d’Artois, his eyes were closed and he was taking deep breaths, in his hand he held a piece of yellowing paper. He took a shallow breath and opened his eyes “ Jacques de Flesselles was slaughtered right in front of my very eyes, oh it was terrible, awful” he shuttered. It was then that he realized I was there, he grinned for an instant, then his face returned to the same solemn look. He looked up at the heavens, and whispered a prayer, then held up the piece of paper in his hand

“Look, just look at it, I drew it as best as I could” Jean mumbled. Papa gasped and took a step back, and he too whispered a prayer. He closed his eyes and started to shake his head, then walked over to the back of the house. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t blink, I couldn’t do anything but stare at the paper. On it Jean had captured the scene in all its gore.

There sketched on the paper was the head of the Marquis Bernard de Launay blood and brain matter oozed down the stake that his head had been placed on, his face still holding the look of sheer terror that he had died with, his eyes still wide open staring into nothingness. Below was the man holding the stake, the ugly mans teeth covered in a vile slime bulged out in different directions forming a grotesque smile, the rags that he was wearing were covered in blood, beside him were men and women wearing the same smiles on their grimy faces, and the same blood splattered on them too. A little boy and girl skipped beside them with even bigger grins swinging their filthy arms in the air.

“I’m sorry” he whispered “I never should have drawn it, it…it deserves to burn”. “No” the words came out without control, I clasped my hands over my mouth and closed my eyes. Then I felt a surge of anger, “No” I screamed again, “no it needs to be keep to serve as a reminder of what happened that day, so that others will know of the horrible deeds that were done.” “It will show others of the terrible fate that befell that poor man” I stopped abruptly feeling the tears run down my face.

Jean looked at me with his mouth gaping open. I could feel my cheeks growing red from embarrassment, “I’m sorry monsieur d’Artois, just…well…you know….” Jean smiled “I know, that was beautiful”, he looked down at the paper in his hand. “I want you to have this” he said handing the paper to me. “Oh no, I cant except this” I said. “No I insist, I want you to have it” he said. “well ok, thank you” I said grabbing the paper.

Papa walked back over, he looked at Jean and grunted, “thank you for coming here and telling us about the truly terrible events that have taken place, but I think its time for you to leave…now” papa growled. “I'm very sorry, it wont happen again” Jean mumbled and nodded his head. Then he looked over at me “never forget what you told me, it may just keep you alive in the near future” he said with a strait face, “good night madam” he added with a tip of his hat. Then he started of towards his home, the ground crunching under his heels. Papa slammed the door, “I don’t know what hes talking about, this was just a little rebellion, the king will make them pay, nothing more will come from this.” Everyone went back to sleep after that, but I couldn’t, Jeans words echoed in my head “never forget what you told me, it may just keep you alive.”