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

Chapter Thirty-Four - 14. March. 1789

Gabriel

Less than a minute after Gabriel leaves Jean’s apartments, a scream rips through the building. He freezes, one foot raised to take his next step. He remembers closing the door before leaving, but it was too dark, and he was in too much of a hurry to ensure nothing else was off. It’s possible there is blood trailing along the floor, left by himself or Marie. And if someone coming back from the salons sees the floor smattered with scarlet . . . 

The scream comes again—louder this time—followed by a series of muffled, frantic words. Gabriel curses under his breath, turning on his heel to exit the Grand Commun before he can be spotted. If anyone were to see him roaming the halls with blood on his waistcoat, there is no doubt suspicions will rise. It may be true he’s planning to expose Baptiste’s group, but he wishes for it to be on his terms.

He barrels to the door leading outside, fingers grazing the gilt bronze doorknob when his mother’s friend, Madame de Leon, hobbles past him, trailed by a group of equally distraught ladies. Taking cover behind a carved pillar, Gabriel waits for them to pass, choking down a wave of panicked breaths.

“Blood! It’s all over the corridor,” Madame de Leon yells, looking seconds away from fainting.

“It’s L’Ange de la Mort!” cries another lady. “He’s come for us all!”

“We have to warn everyone!” says a third.

Gabriel digs his nails into the smooth marble. The last thing he needs now is a mass panic. Though, stuck in his hiding spot, he can do nothing but watch helplessly while the ladies rush down the hall, screaming at every shadow tucked in the corners and every speck marring the polished floors.

Once they are out of sight, he waits a few more minutes before he slips out the door and into the cool night air. However, as he rounds the corner of the building, he realizes his attempts at remaining discreet were useless. For panic has already spread like the plague. 

All across the black and white tiled courtyard, courtiers huddle together in groups, hands covering open mouths and eyes widened in fear. Dogs huddle in ladies’ arms, struggling to break free. Those who don’t look afraid exchange bits of hushed laughter with their friends, seeming to relish in the distraction from monotony. A few courtiers still have cards and betting chips clamped in their hands from where they’d rushed outside in a hysteric frenzy. 

A group of guards runs toward the main entrance of the Grand Commun, the sound of swords clanking against their hips covering up the din of frightened gossip in the courtyard. Gabriel furrows his brow at the sight. Even if Madame de Leon had been running as fast as her ample skirts would allow, there is no way she could have alerted them in the time since he last saw her. Which means someone else must have told the guards before Madame de Leon had the chance. A theory which is confirmed as the guards rush past Gabriel, paying no heed to him standing against the wall.

“Monsieur de Coligny said the assassins went this way,” one guard says, running toward the quiet streets of the surrounding town.

Dammit, Jean. Gabriel should have known his friend would pull a stunt like this, sending the guards in the wrong direction so Gabriel can’t turn himself in just yet. He only wishes it wouldn’t have involved causing half of Versailles to file outside in terror.