The howling wind whipped through him, and
his meagre clothing shivered in the silvery sheet of lashing rain. Jean
Luc cast his exhausted eyes around him. Peering through the blanket
of darkness, he could see that he was standing in a lonely bleak street
in a small suburb somewhere. He could be anywhere. Rouen? Marseilles?
Rennes? Or was he in Paris? Yes, he was near Paris, he could remember
that much.
Staggering forward, Jean Luc lurched into the shadow of a gargantuan
beast. He stood stock still, held vice-like in its concrete gaze. He
edged closer, drawn by the stony building leering drunkenly before him.
He paused, a searing pain stabbing through his laboured breath. He knew
that he had to carry on. The dingy expanse of road swayed before him.
A sudden flash of lightning struck the most sensitive part of Jean Luc's
eyes and rendered him momentarily blind. He stumbled forward like a
lost orphan reaching out, terrified, for its mother. Jean Luc reached
up and felt the disgusting ooze of congealing blood, the sticky crimson
slime smearing through his filthy fingers.
Another flash of lightning, closer this time, illuminated his dormant
memory and a series of horrifying snap-shots flickered uncontrollably
against his bruised eyelids: the pain and burden of his knowledge returning
ten-fold. A terrific crash of thunder split the night air and the dull,
pulsating pain in his forehead grew to an unbearable climax until he
could no longer think, feel, breathe, and he collapsed to the ground
in a crumpled heap.
Fr. Bretodeu gazed lovingly around the small homely church building;
his eyes resting appreciatively on the sparking alter, illuminated by
the bright stream of
sunlight shining through the wide window behind it. He felt at peace
here; the quiet chapel had the effect of calming his thoughts and soothing
his troubles. The plump middle aged priest, his face lined with the
worries of others, sighed contentedly and slowly made his way to the
back of the church. As much as he would have liked it, he did not have
time to stop and stare at the beautiful stained glass windows, which
adorned the otherwise plain walls of the building. Or thank god for
the magnificently carved Stations of the Cross, or any of the other
beautiful things that the grateful people of the parish had given him
throughout the many years of hard service he had spent here in this
sleepy French town. Rumour were life in these most troubled times, with
the word spreading like wildfire through the country that the revolutionary
parties planned to overthrow the monarchy in France. But these political
matters of state did not affect Fr. Bretodeu. He liked his simple life
here, helping the needy and tending to the troubles of his flock. This
was a world far removed from the hustle and bustle of Paris where he
had been trained for the priesthood, although the actual distance between
the two towns could not have been more than a few miles.
As he threw open the doors of the modest chapel on that warm spring
morning and drank in the fresh cold air, Fr. Bretodeu knew that there
would no doubt be some poor troubled soul seeking a patient ear waiting
for him. He did not, however, expect to see a stricken form lying motionless
in the street, for all the world like a forlorn pile of ragged clothing,
cast aside in favour of an a la mode model. Perhaps this man was a traveller,
he thought as he edged closer, caught in the terrific storms of the
previous evening. One look at the woeful expression on the man's face,
however, told Fr Bretodeu that this man would need more than a cup of
strong coffee and a few kind words to heal his mental and physical wounds.
Nevertheless, this man needed help, and he would not be left unaided.
With considerable effort. Fr. Bretodeu roused the lifeless figure and
helped him stumble into the little stone chapel.
'Why did that little swine have to find out that I'm a spy'?' thought
Sebastian darkly as he swept imperiously through the airy night streets
ot'Ebrennac. his swirling robes billowing in the light breeze. He despised
small towns such as this. They were like empty flagons of a cheap, disgusting
wine; the leftover dregs of society thrown together in a melee of parochial
slime. These simpletons could never comprehend the magnitude of his
work in Paris. Liberte! Fratemite! Egalite! This, the puerile slogan
of those revolutionary fools he had been sent to spy on. Their abominable
dream of a France free of the great and powerful monarchy provoked in
him feelings of intense loathing of these people- the kind of peasantry
scum that inhabited Ebrennac. If only that bourgeois halfwit had not
uncovered his true identity! Curse him! And curse those idiots he had
sent to kill him. A botched job if ever he saw one. That swine had
escaped, and now roamed free with the power to reveal Sebastian's true
identity to his snivelling, stinking revolutionary 'superiors'. He abhorred
them! All of them! But their day would come. First, he must deal with
this insignificant rogue who threatened to upset his well laid plans.
If anyone knew how to find someone in Paris or in its abundance of surrounding
villages, Mathieu would, Sebastian mused, as he approached the dwelling
of his old friend. Surely Mathieu would remember him and extend a familiar
hand of friendship, even after all these years...
If Mathieu was surprised to see the long, drawn face of his old friend
on his doorstep, he did not show it. Genuine warmth shone from his eyes
as he flung wide
the door and exclaimed,
'Sebastian Seignard! Come in, dear friend, come in!' Pleasantries exchanged,
Mathieu waited patiently for Sebastian to reveal the purpose of his
visit. It was certainly a shock to see him, Mathieu mused as Sebastian
launched into a stream of mindless small talk and pointless details
of his career and home and acquaintances, as if this useless information
would somehow make up for his abrupt twenty-year disappearance from
Mathieu's life. As Sebastian explained that he had come to see Mathieu
for 'old times' sake' and because he needed to find a 'dear cousin'
he had lost track of in the city, Mathieu surreptitiously inspected
his face. After all this time, Mathieu could still tell when Sebastian
was lying. The lingering ghost of deja vu enveloped the two figures,
and Mathieu could remember with disturbing clarity the last time Sebastian
had lied to him. Whoever the man Sebastian was looking for was, he was
certainly not a 'dear cousin': the poorly hidden steely glaze in his
eyes told Mathieu this much. His instinctive senses screamed at him
to be careful. Sebastian had changed a great deal. He sported a malevolent
gleam in his eye that Mathieu could not remember from their time training
together in Paris. Sebastian now had a disdainful air, like some unpleasant
odour was polluting the air he was breathing. This man, whoever he was,
had better watch out for himself; this disturbing change in Sebastian
had not been for the better. Mathieu breathed a quick prayer for this
poor soul before returning to the demanding eyes of his guest.
Jean Luc was wakened by the murmur of low voices emanating from the
darkness around him. He was in the upstairs room of a house somewhere,
he didn't know where. The last thing he could remember was standing
in a rain-drenched street outside a stone church near Paris. He had
been running, but to where and from whom?
As he attempted to rise from the warm bed he was lying in, a terrific
pain shot across his forehead, and he flopped back down among the soft
pillows. And then he remembered. He remembered seeing Sebastian Seignard,
his father's most trusted confidante, passing information to them. He
remembered that he had been going to tell his father when Sebastian's
men had attacked him. He had to leave. Whoever he was staying with,
they were in grave danger; Sebastian had many powerful friends, he could
track down Jean Luc wherever he was. Wincing with pain, Jean Luc gingerly
made his way to the door of his room and peered out. He found himself
in a corridor with a staircase at one end. He crept silently to the
end of the corridor and glanced furtively down the stairway. Bathed
in the moon's unearthly glow, the staircase swam before his eyes. He
stumbled on the first step, and his heart leapt into his mouth. He came
crashing down the stairs, terror making his eyes see the cold stone
slabs come racing up to meet him in slow motion. With a repulsive crack,
his head smashed against the stone, and his eyes glazed over in pain
as his world turned blood red.
The two figures at the foot of the stairs stood motionless in shock:
one tall and emaciated with a cold profile that the dead man would have
found disturbingly
familiar; the other small and plump, a bemused expression taking the
place of his normally serene features. Sebastian's face turned from
shock to cold fury as he turned slowly and menacingly to face his companion.
'Do you know what this piece of filth is?', he asked slowly, deliberately
stressing each syllable through uncontrollably clenched teeth.
'You are one of them, Bretodeu,' he said, chuckling inanely, 'you always
did pick the losing side. You! You helped this abominable swine! YOU
DARED TO HELP THIS, THIS PIECE OF.. .OF...' His voice grew to a crescendo
of hate and fury as he struggled to find words to vent his anger, and
his face turned a sickly, swollen purple.
Mathieu backed slowly away from Sebastian, attempting to fight the onslaught
of accusations with his outstretched hands.
'Sebastian, what are you talking about?', he said slowly and calmly,
'I found him battered and bruised on the street. Of course I helped
him. That is my job. Or had you forgotten that we priests are meant
to help people, not hurt them?
'YOU!' yelled Sebastian in a strangled half-scream. He lunged at Mathieu
and closed his spindly fingers around the struggling man's throat. His
face was a distorted portrait of uncontrollable fury as he slowly squeezed
life from Mathieu's flailing body. Sebastian finally released the dead
man's corpse from his poisoned grip, and let it fall to the cold, stone
floor with a sickening thud. |
