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

Chapter Eighteen - 22. February. 1789

Gabriel

“A bunch of nonsense is what it is,” Gabriel’s father says, taking a gulp of his champagne. “Just the commoners trying their damndest to get a rise out of the nobility. We ought to ignore their ridiculous outcries for attention. My son agrees as well, do you not, Gabriel?” 

Gabriel takes a sip of his own champagne, though the second he does, it threatens to come back up. “Yes, Father.”

Jean and Comte de Coligny stand next to him, along with Charles and Pierre. News of Monsieur de Levis’ murder spread through the salons minutes ago, and now the courtiers who hadn’t fled the rooms in a cloud of worry and expensive perfume stand around the gaming tables, drinking and discussing their own theories on the reasons behind the kills. 

There are a hundred places Gabriel would rather be at the moment—in his rooms, riding on horseback through the woods, in the gardens with Lizabeth as he was earlier that night, watching the moonlight turn her hair the color of expensive wine—but, as always, he’s stuck making appearances in public. Wouldn’t want to make anyone suspicious, after all. But he’s weary and tired, exhaustion pulling down on him as if he has weights strapped to his ankles. The heat of bodies and candlelight blaze against his skin. The din of gossip slices at his ears. The glitter of the chandeliers pierce his eyes. 

Gabriel’s stomach rolls, and he swallows back the bile creeping up his throat. The champagne glass shakes in his hand.

“I’ve been saying that from the start,” Comte de Coligny says. “The commoners have been fussing about the shortage of bread for months. I thought it best to lock my estate’s grain away so none of them could get their filthy hands on it. That is the only way to teach them obedience.” 

“My son would do well to learn from your example,” Gabriel’s father says, clapping Gabriel on the back. 

The words fly past Gabriel’s ears, but none of the conversation registers. He feels as if he’s on the edge of a cliff, one foot dangling into oblivion. A single push, and he’ll plummet to his demise. 

Comte de Coligny smiles at Gabriel’s father and raises his glass. “Charles has certainly learned well. It’s a shame the same can’t be said for my second son.” 

Charles gives an audible snort into his champagne, and Jean clenches his jaw, his hand tightening around his wine glass. Next to him, Pierre flashes a small, pitying smile. 

Comte de Coligny killed Marie’s parents, says a tiny voice in the back of Gabriel’s head. Comte de Coligny is a murderer, and no one in this room knows—not even Jean.  

Then Charles says, “You’re being rather quiet tonight, Gabriel. Has something happened?” 

He starts, snapping his head to Charles. Jean’s brother looks at him, one corner of his mouth flicked up. 

“What would have happened?” Gabriel asks.

“Well, you have been acting a bit strangely as of late.” Charles frowns, swirling the champagne in his glass. “And you were absent from the salons for the majority of the night.” 

Jean shoots a glance to his father, but the comte is engaging in a heated discussion and isn’t listening in on their conversation. “Gabriel wasn’t feeling well earlier,” he cuts in. “That’s why he was absent.”