During the five days he had been in Paris, Philippe had concluded that Maurice Bernard was a very dull fellow indeed. He had a lot to say, but nothing that carried much weight. Still, Philippe felt that he'd rather be in his company during the execution than end up alone in a city which had changed quite vastly since he'd been in it five years ago. Philippe's mother had refused to join him to witness the macabre event, and his father was working in the bakery.

It was the twenty-first of January and the most imminent trace of monarchy in France, the former king Louis XVI, had been guillotined. It would forever be remembered as the day that liberty overcame despotism.

After the body had been inspected and was set on the platform for display, the scene at the Place de la Révolution had turned obscene. Men and women were bleating insults at the dead man and making gestures considered discourteous in company. Armed people were getting into fights over matters of no importance, drunk on the result of the Revolution. That was when Maurice pulled him away.

As the two friends walked down an alley quite a distance from the execution grounds, Philippe kicking a stone aimlessly and Maurice walking with him, his hands in his pockets, straightening up whenever a pretty woman walked past them, and slouching back over when they paid no heed to him. It had rained at dawn that morning and the roads were wet and slippery. Paris was unusually crowded—thousands from nearby towns and villages that flocked to the capital to watch what they considered to be the end of an oppressive era.

Philippe couldn't help but laugh at that thought. Every era was an oppressive one. The cycle of oppression and revolution was endless, only interspersed by short periods when the Gods would take pity on the populace and give them a kind ruler. Robespierre would be every inch a tyrant as Louis XVI or the queen Marie Antoinette were.

He pitied the King. The man had not been prepared for kingship since birth. His father, Louis XV and his oldest son had been the potential heirs of his grandfather Louis XIV's throne. He had been neglected as a child, for his parents chose to fawn over their eldest son. When kingship was thrust upon this weak-willed thirteen year old after his granfather's careless regime—one that had pushed France into the ruts of debt—there was little he could do. The scapegoat could do little but bleat as it was branded the cause of all that history had brought upon poorer men.

Louis Capet had been brought in a bullock cart after a long procession from the jail to the grounds. The atmosphere had been slick with malice and hatred. Disparaging insults for the man and inspiring slogans praising the French Republic had been sounded in equal numbers.

Louis had been accompanied by a priest of some sort—Philippe was not aware who he really was—but the king had kept his calm, even after being cut off while saying his last words.

Being more decisive than he had ever been during his reign, he had proclaimed, "I die innocent of all the crimes imputed to me. I pardon the authors of my death, and pray God that the blood you are about to shed will never fall upon France."

His next words had been cut off by the people's indignant protests and the incessant drumming by men who had been stationed around the grounds solely for this purpose. Then, the last monarch of France was pushed to the scaffold.

The guillotine had fascinated Philippe. It was a tall, wooden contraption with a blade fixed on the upper edge of the frame, brought down on the neck of its poor victim who lay tied to it. He was astonished by the precision of the blade as it hurtled through the air for a second that seemed to last an eternity. Its silvery blade, glinting in the sunlight, sliced right through Louis' neck with a splash of scarlet.

"Found a job yet?" Maurice asked, diverting Philippe's stream of thought. They were in a deserted alley—the marketplace—some miles away from the execution grounds. Still, faint shouts of 'Vive le Republique' sounded in their ears.

"I've been everywhere, but no. Not a single opening."

"Good luck getting one," Maurice said, sympathy clouding his smile. "There are more unemployed youth here than employed ones. Finding a job itself is a Herculean task, and getting it is out of the question. However," he offered, "I could ask my employer if he could hire you. He is sympathetic to people like us."

"Thank you," Philippe said gratefully, "But who is he?"

"You've heard of Comte d'Aramitz? That'll be him."

Philippe's throat went dry at the name. A glimpse of the woman he'd met five days ago flitted through his thoughts, followed by his mother's warning words.

Swallowing his surprise with difficulty, he asked, "d'Aramitz, huh?"

"Yes. The daughter Marie has a terrible reputation because of what happened between her and Carpentier's son, but she's a sweet lass. Kind enough to us stable boys."

"What happened? You know I've been here only five days," Philippe asked, his curiosity piqued.

He hadn't spoken to his parents ever since the night when he had told them about Moreau's murder, thus unable to find out more about Marie. However, he had won his mother over with a lot of crying over the past three days. Except for an occasional injured glance from her, the issue was not brought up.

His father, however, referred to him as 'the killer son' whenever he talked to Maman about him, as if Philippe hadn't been present in the same room.

"Well," Maurice said, lowering his voice in a conspirational whisper, "Rumor has it that Carpentier's son made—er, a physical advance at d'Aramitz and she stabbed him in the eye with a dagger when she tried to defend herself. And her shouts as she tried to shield herselfdrew quite a large crowd."

"Terrible disgrace for the Carpentiers, I suppose."

"Oh yes, the fact that they were mere carpenters three generations ago, before they rose to power itself is a great source of shame for them. There's been blood feud between the d'Aramitzs and the Carpentiers since the time the first Caprentier rose to power, but no one knows why. They're hell-bent on having d'Aramitz killed for bringing more bad press upon the family name. Anyone who lends a helping hand to the d'Aramitz family is hunted down by Capentier's men. Luckily for people like you and me, they don't really care about the stable boys."

"They have to have Carpentier's boy nailed to the cross, if they really want to avenge the disgrace that has been brought upon their name. What did poor Marie do?" Philippe exclaimed. His mind reeled from all the information. His escapade in the forest made sense now.

"You tell them," Maurice muttered.

And they plunged back into uncomfortable silence. Maurice occasionally made a stupid comment about the weather to break it, but succeeded in only worsening the discomfort. When they parted at crossroads, Philippe reminded his friend to ask for a job for him and Maurice agreed absently.

Philippe meandered all alone through the streets. He stopped whenever he saw a shop to enquire whether there was a job opening, only to be disappointed. He had a niggling voice in his head, telling him he was being followed, but it was drowned out by the whirlpool of thoughts that hit him about Marie d'Aramitz.

Just then, the slapping of horse's hooves against the ground grew too loud to be brushed away. His hand slid into the coat he'd borrowed from his father but came back empty. It fell limp when he realized that his mother had sold his dagger for the money they desperately needed.

The money which had been exhausted the previous day.

Cursing everything for his family to fate, he turned around slowly, only to see Marie d'Aramitz on a brown mare at the end of the road.

She looked different this time. Decked in an exquisite golden dress, with her auburn hair twisted into a long plait that rid down to her waist, she looked every inch the noblewoman that she was. Her face glowed with relief when he caught sight of her. She jumped down the horse and walked towards him slowly.

"Bonjour," he greeted, tipping his cap to her.

"Bonjour, Philippe," she murmured, pulling the reins tightly around her palm to keep her fidgeting horse from running away.

"What happened to the ebony one?" Philippe asked, shuffling his feet back and forth uncomfortably. He knew the answer. It was probably dead. And she probably hated him for it.

"You killed him. And Gaspard was my favourite horse," Marie said in an accusatory tone.

That bruised Philippe's pride on his riding skills.

"He was too old for the chase. You should've known better than to bring him out when you know that Carpentier's men are thirsting for you blood," he fired back. A little voice in his head reminded him that that was not the way to talk to a noblewoman, but he pushed the concern away.

"He would've survived if you hadn't ridden him like a madman."

"And we would've ended up six feet under the ground."

Marie frowned. "Well, I'm not here for an apology. You killed my horse and I will despise you for that, but you saved my life and I'll be grateful too. But this is not about Gaspard. I'm here because I need to discuss something about you."

"About me," Philippe asked. What could she possibly want?

"The men from Bordeaux are here. In Paris."

He stiffened. "What?"

"You heard me," she shrugged, her eyes boring into his. She did not offer any kind words.

"H-How do you know about the men from Bordeaux?"

"Well," she said, averting her eyes too quickly, "I have my sources."

"Did you have someone spy on me?"

"N-No!" she exclaimed, scandalized.

"But how do you know then?"

"I don't want you to get too mad," she pleaded, "But my brother is the commander of your unit."

Philippe shot her an incredulous look. Commander Laurent, who'd been an acquaintance of his in the army was definitely not of noble lineage. The man was definitely a child of the dirt.

"I don't see the 'd'Aramitz' in Commander Chauncey Laurent's name," he commented.

"He was my father's i-illegitimate child. We were good friends as children, and correspond through letters regularly these days. My father sent him to the army to keep him quiet. Luckily, Chauncey happens to enjoy all the killing, so it is a good compromise for everyone. When he told me about the man that killed Jacques Moreau after he—," Marie started saying and stopped short when she saw the appalled look on Philippe's face.

"Shut up," he said silently. His voice was flat, but menacing.

Her cheeks turned red as she fiddled with the reins in her hand, refusing to meet his eyes. She took a step back.

Philippe felt a rush of blood surge to his head. Panic flooded his veins. She knew the truth about him. Why wasn't she reacting like Commander Laurent or Alicio? Where was the look of absolute revulsion, the wide-eyed fear? He couldn't help but feel uneasy at her blank expression. It did little to relieve him. However, a little spark of hope ignited in his mind—was it possible that she understood?

Marie cleared her throat pointedly. Philippe realized that he had been staring at her with a peculiar expression adorning his face. He hastily looked at the ground.

"So," he asked, "you know."

"Yes."

"And you're still here?"

"You don't see me jumping onto my horse and riding away, do you?"

"Are you sure men from Bordeaux are here?"

"I saw them with my very own eyes," she replied affirmatively. "They were at the Wall of the Farmers-General—the border--answering officials two days ago. Later, I got a letter from Chauncey telling me that the nobles sent their men after you. I've been searching for you ever since. I battled the constant fear that you had been killed before I could find you. Though he had to report you due to protocol, Chauncey likes you, Philippe. He's keeping an eye out on the nobles at Bordeaux. When he heard that they were second four of their best men at you, Philippe, I was informed immediately. I was afraid you'd be dead before I could warn you."

That explained the relief on her face when she'd seen him.

"Thank you for letting me know, you needn't have made such an effort," Philippe said, gratitude overpowering his fear for the moment. Yet, he couldn't keep the dread from clouding his voice. The emptiness in his left pocket of his coat seemed particularly pronounced against his body after receiving the news.

"Oh, but I had to," Marie exclaimed. "I had to repay what I owed you."

Philippe nodded. "Thank you, then."

He put his hands back into his pockets and shuffled his feet as Marie loosened her grip on the reins and got onto her horse.

"Keep your dagger with you at all times," she said. "You never know when they'll pounce on you."

"I'll make sure," he muttered.

Marie stopped handling the reins as soon as she heard that. Her eyes narrowed with worry. "You don't have your dagger, do you?"

"Don't worry about it," Philippe said lightly, even though the fact that he didn't have a weapon worried him very much indeed. "I'll manage."

"Oh no, you will not be able to. They're four men and you're one. I heard they're all armed with rifles; you won't stand a chance against them. Wait," she said, reaching over to the satchel tied to the saddle. "I've definitely got a dagger in here," she said as she unclasped the hatch.

"Oh no, Marie, I'll be alright."

"Of course you will," she said distractedly, adopting the condescending tone one would use with a stubborn child.

"At least one of us believes in my ability to take care of myself," he said to her, shaking his head as she pushed a dagger to his chest.

"At least one of us isn't silly enough to believe that you could do so without a weapon."

He realized that she was right. He was a good soldier, but not an extraordinary one. He would not last even for a second without the dagger.

Marie thrust the dagger at him again. He caved to her offer and accepted it gratefully.

"Thank you, Marie, from the bottom of my heart." He examined the dagger. The craftsmanship was excellent; it balanced perfectly in his hand. The hilt was made of intricately carved bronze.

He ran his finger gently down the edges of the iron blade, inexplicable ecstasy shooting through him as he noticed that both sides were sharper than the spines of a porcupine. It felt good to hold a weapon once again.

Marie's eyes lit up. "I'll get going then. I slipped away from my father's entourage after the execution and my sister is covering up for me. I need to get back soon." Philippe nodded in understanding.

Smiling at him, she turned her horse around and galloped back the way she came.

Philippe pocketed the dagger and walked down the road. Dread and euphoria trickled through him like rivulets from the same stream.

Honestly, I don't know what to think of this chapter. I tried to include some of the history behind the political situation here, but I'm afraid it's too info-dumpy. Also, I'm doubtful about the dynamics during the second interaction between Marie and Philippe. What are your thoughts?

Anyway, thank you so much for sticking on this long. I've been receiving a wonderful response for this story--one much better than I expected--and thank you so very much for that! I hope that you're enjoying it :)

Au revoir!