The Wolves of Paris

She glared lightning at him.

"Now, I believe I was in the middle of sharing a particularly vibrant resource with you." He gestured to his lap. "If you please?"

Gritting her teeth, Leta placed her bosom over his lap, letting him slide between her breasts and then, at his command, squeezing them together around him. His turgid cock pulsed. He took particular pleasure in watching her squirm. "And now?" he said. Wincing, she bent her head down as far as it would go and opened her mouth again, allowing him to push up and slide between her breasts and into her waiting lips. She swirled her tongue around his intruding head, tasting the drip.

More commotion came from outside, but Santerre was too far along now to care about that. Keeping Leta frozen in this contorted posture he began to thrust up and up and up against her, and in her, taking advantage of the tantalizing wetness of her mouth. If he could just relax, if he could just let everything go for only a minute...

"Ah," he said, "I think that's it."

"Wait!" said Leta, voice muffled.

"No, no waiting," said Santerre, pushing all the way into her mouth to silence her. He ground his cock around and around inside her mouth, fighting past her gag, feeling himself contract, contract, contract, and then...

"Ahhh!"

Release.

After a few seconds he stopped and let her go. Leta ran and stuck her head out the window, gagging and then spitting. She wiped her mouth.

"I asked you not to do that again," she said.

"An oversight, my dear," said Santerre, readjusting his belt.

"Pig," said Leta. "In the days of my father's France I could have you arrested for even looking at me like that. You'd have been broken on the wheel."

"But this is not your father's France, is it?" Santerre said. "This is the new France, and all of your titles and holdings and ancient ancestors won't buy you a whit except a date with the National Razor. We are all equals now, all just citizens, with our own separate duties. Although some of us are more equal than others: The Law of Suspects deems you an enemy of the state until you show significant patriotism to be afforded a Civic Certificate. Which you haven't."

Leta's face reddened. "I know this already." She was trying to lace her dress back up.

"From your tone I thought you needed a reminder. Do you think the price I charge to protect your identity is too high? Many are the women in Paris who, in the days of your father's France, were forced to trade in their bodies and delicate virtues just to live. Perhaps now you know how they felt? The currency I pay you in is not livres, but it is no less valuable to your pretty neck."

He made a show of turning to the papers on his desk. Leta looked as if she were weighting the merits of scratching his eyes out but instead she marched out the door. Santerre could not help but feel pleased. Perhaps Leta's example should remind him that the Republic, whatever its excesses, truly was a Mecca for rational governance in Europe. So what if a few people lost their heads? That was nothing new. Wasn't it amazing that he, once a mere brewer, could now be a man of power and influence, while a once-privileged woman like Leta was forced to wait on him? Weren't liberty, fraternity, and equality worth the price of a few —?

Santerre realized he had not heard the door slam. Looking up, he saw two men standing in the doorway, apparently waiting for him. The foremost of them was a very young man with a long face and dark, curly hair that flowed freely, rather than being secured under a wig. He was a strange-looking man; beautiful, so much so that you might have taken him for an angel. And so he was, in his way, for he was known throughout Paris as the Angel of Death.

Santerre's jumped to his feet. "Citizen Saint-Just!" he said.

"Good day, General," said Saint-Just, entering. "It is a good day?"

"What? I mean, of course." Santerre suddenly found it exceedingly hot in his office. He loosened his collar. Saint-Just seemed to be staring at something very intently. Santerre squirmed.

"General?" said Saint-Just. Santerre stammered.

"Yes, Citizen Saint-Just?"

"Why are you not wearing any pants?"

Santerre looked down. "Good God!" he cried.

Saint-Just sat down. He drew a nail file from his pocket and twirled it between his fingers as Santerre pulled his trousers up and tightened his belt. "Just because you are called sans-culottes, General, does not mean you must actually go bare-legged," he said.

"Forgive me, Citizen Saint-Just! I was just...well, it is unseasonably hot today and I, not expecting your visit, took it to mind that I should, well, cool off a bit."

"I saw just what cooled you off on her way out," said Saint-Just, filing his nails. "But I am surprised to hear you say that you did not expect me. Surely you knew I would want an update on the whereabouts of the fugitive Fabre?"

"Of course," said Santerre, sitting. "My men searched the entire city last night and...I'm afraid he had eluded us so far. But he cannot continue so for long. Soon he'll be the most wanted man in France, and the citizens will harry him wherever he goes!"

"The citizens must not know that Fabre is still alive," said Saint-Just. "Your men already mentioned his name much too freely last night."

Santerre paled. "...of course. The people...must not know."

"The people believe that Fabre is already dead," said Saint-Just. "We executed another in his place to cover up his escape. And do you know why?" Saint-Just was furiously filing, keeping his eyes on his cuticles.

"Um, why?"

"Because what the ignorant call terror Citizen Robespierre calls justice: prompt, severe, and inflexible. Terror is the fount of all virtue. Our enemies must never cease to be afraid. If even one were known to have escaped his date with the National Razor—"

"Then all our works would be undone," said a third voice.

Santerre started; he had completely forgotten that there was another man to see him. "Captain Chastel," he said. "You see, Citizen Saint-Just, this is the very man whose report on the whereabouts of Fabre I was expecting."

"We have already met," said Saint-Just, his lip curling just a bit. Chastel entered and saluted in a somewhat lax manner. He did not spare Saint-Just a glance. "And I knew him already by reputation: the esteemed soldier and huntsman, Chastel, yes. I do not suppose you have Fabre in custody, captain?"

"No," said Chastel.

"Hmm. What do you know of Fabre, captain?"

"There is not much to know," Chastel said. "A teacher turned poet and playwright. He was Danton's secretary before he won a seat in the Convention. He voted in favor of executing the former king. It was Fabre who developed our new calendar. Condemned as a counter-revolutionary conspirator, he was set to be executed yesterday morning alongside Danton and Danton's other associates." He paused. "Except, he was not: Somehow he escaped from the Luxembourg, with the help of unknown accomplices, and even now he is still at large."

Saint-Just looked at Chastel. Chastel looked at Santerre. Santerre worked very hard to look at nothing at all, opting instead merely to sweat. Saint-Just broke the silence: "And what did you think, captain, when you heard the news that Danton and the others were set to be executed?"

Chastel blinked and mimed a theatrical expression of puzzlement. "I was not aware that the Republic asks me to think. I am only called on to do. So I do."

Santerre bit his lip. Saint-Just's expression could have frozen beer. Chastel looked, if anything, merely bored. Finally, Saint-Just stood. "Your captain seems loyal enough, Santerre. For now." He moved to the door. "I do not want to have to come back here. Find Fabre and kill him. The Committee will see its verdict carried out one way or the other."

"Of course!" said Santerre. The door closed. Santerre sagged in his chair. He looked at Chastel. "Did you know that you were evidently born until an exceedingly lucky sign, captain?"

"I assure you that it was nothing of the sort."

"I have seen Saint-Just give that look to many men, and every one of them lost his head by the end of the day."

"I may still," said Chastel. "But until then I have my duty." And he gave his report on the search for Fabre last night.

"So we've lost him?" he said when Chastel finished.

"Not quite," said Chastel. "I believe he is still in the city. And I believe that I can catch him."

"You do realize what's at stake here? The Committee does not accept appeals to ineptitude. If Fabre escapes we'll both be under suspicion of having collaborated with him. Suspicion is as good as conviction."

"I think, General, that even this kind of talk would send us both to Madame Guillotine if Citizen Saint-Just were to hear it."

Santerre clammed up. After glancing at the door with a nervous eye, he nodded. "You'll have as many men at your disposal as you wish."

"I don't want a single one. I will hunt for Fabre on my own."

Santerre was startled. "Why?"

"Various reasons," said Chastel. "But foremost among them is that my grandfather swore an oath."

Seeing Santerre's bewildered expression, Chastel merely saluted. "If you'll pardon me, the hunt is not going to join itself. Good day, General."

Santerre watched him go. A queer fellow, he thought, but Santerre had never seen a finer soldier. It was almost enough to make him forget the sound of the weighted blade dropping beneath his window once again. The slow grind of wagon wheels bearing a very particular cargo punctuated the morning air. Santerre rubbed his neck.

In truth, he had not been entirely honest with Chastel: They were both likely to be arrested as suspected counter-revolutionary traitors even if Fabre was found, merely because Saint-Just seemed not to like either of them. And Saint-Just's word was as good as law with the Committee, where Saint-Just was second only to Robespierre himself. Santerre's life was now in Antoine Chastel's hands, but it could turn out that neither of their lives were worth very much after all. He looked out the window at the Seine. The Seine, with twenty new pairs of bobbing eyes, looked back.

***

There were no more palaces in Paris, only prisons. Chastel considered the Luxembourg: until recently it had been a museum. In a way, it still was, since those incarcerated here were soon to be things of the past. If he failed in his mission, Chastel might shortly join them, but he paid that no mind. As a Chastel, he had long since come to terms with the fact that he was not going to live forever, nor even any appreciable fraction thereof. He shouldered his musket as he walked; he always carried his musket. He was a hard-looking man, and sober. He was young, but at not quite 25 he was not the youngest man to hold his rank, for France was rapidly running out of old men.

Though a professional soldier, he had the quality of a sans-culotte about him. He'd defended Paris against the Prussian invaders at Valmy, when a band of undisciplined freemen faced down the best commanders in Europe and scattered them with the cry "Vive la Nation!", and he had followed Dumouriez to victory in the Austrian Netherlands, unflinching in the face of the Imperial Army's cannons. But after Dumoriez fled the country on treason charges all of his officers came under suspicion and Chastel was recalled to the capital, where he could be more closely observed. He did not mind. He always knew his duty would bring him back to the capital sooner or later. Terror ruled Paris now, and terror was Chastel's birthright.

He considered his prey: Philippe François Nazaire Fabre d'Églantine; poet, dramatist, politician, spy, traitor, fugitive, and, if Chastel's suspicions were correct, something else as well. So now Chastel went to the Luxembourg. It was here that Fabre staged his escape, but that was not why Chastel wanted to see it. He was more interested in a prisoner still there. The streets were full of people celebrating the day's executions. Some of them celebrated out of a true sense of patriotic jubilation, while others celebrated for fear of being informed on if they did not appear patriotic enough. It was all the same to Chastel.

He told the soldiers on guard why he was there. No one questioned him. They all knew who he was. He went to a particular block of cells and found a young, anxious-looking soldier on duty. Chastel indicated the cell he wished to visit and the soldier looked surprised, but knew better than to ask questions. Chastel eyed him as he shook out his key ring. "You were here last night, weren't you?" Chastel said. "The night of the escape?"

The young soldier hesitated. Openly admitting knowledge of the escape was not conducive to a particularly long life at this point, but he couldn't very well tell a superior officer he was wrong either. "Tell me what happened," Chastel said. The soldier shrugged.

"It was as you've heard, captain," he said.

"What happened just before?"

"His wife came."

"Fabre's wife?"

"Yes."

"Fabre had no wife."

Before the soldier could answer, a woman's voice from the nearest cell interrupted them: "The hand of God is on your shoulder, good captain!" Chastel peered through the window in the cell door. A woman who might be a ghost stared back.

"Ignore her," said the guard. "She's a madwoman."

"Who is she?"

"You've never heard of Catherine Theot? She thinks she has visions, talks to angels, that kind of thing. Says that Citizen Robespierre is some kind of prophet."

"You've stared into the jaws of hell. Hell hunts you, even now," said the old woman. "Your heart bleeds. I can make it whole."

"Are you sure she's mad?" said Chastel.

"Place your hand on my belly and feel the new Messiah growing within!"

"Pretty sure," said the guard. "This next is the one you want." He banged on the door of the next cell. "You have a visitor!" he said.

"Tell whoever it is to go drown himself in piss," said a voice from inside. The soldier opened the door.

"After you," he said.

The cell smelled of waste. A mattress of straw was the only furnishing. A man with an unwholesome pallor lay on it, covering his face with one hand for protection from the glaring sun coming through the bars on his window. He parted his fingers just wide enough to see who was there and then groaned.

"Oh do leave me alone, Chastel," said the Marquis de Sade, rolling over. "I don't have the strength for whatever silly thing you want. I am suffering from a terrible inflammation of the rectum today."

"Be careful, or he'll give you all the details," said the young soldier. "All the details." He shut the door and left them alone. Chastel nudged the Marquis with the toe of his boot. "What in the name of the pope's holy erection do you want?" the Marquis said.

"Information," said Chastel.

The Marquis made a rude gesture. "So you're hunting again, hmm? Still trying to live up to your grandfather's reputation. Do I take this to mean that in addition to the rapaciousness of the Committee that Paris is also suffering the depredations of one of your wehr-wolves?"

"Three men died trying to stop Fabre's escape," said Chastel. "I saw their bodies, and the corpses moaned when I held wolfsbane over their mouths. A wehr-wolf killed those men. I want to know who it was. Fabre's cell was right across from yours. Tell me what you know about his escape."

The Marquis dug at a chink in the wall with his fingernail. "I didn't see it. They don't let me out for a show, you know."

Chastel's expression remained stony.

"Oh fine, so I did see a few things," said the Marquis. "And you're right, there was a wolf here. Why else would anyone bother to rescue a worm like Fabre? I hardly see how it matters. He'll have left the city by now."

"He's still here."

"How do you know?"

"Men with the means to flee don't have to beg for their bread. Now tell me about the escape."

The Marquis gave him a strange, squinting look. "I knew your father, you know," he said. "He died owing me a great deal of money."

"The escape," Chastel said again.

"He was a terrible gambler. And I've never seen a worse man for wine. And as for the whores—"

"The escape. Now."

"I'm not telling you a damn thing."

"No? Well then..."

One of Chastel's calloused hands grabbed the Marquis by his collar and the other hand snatched a knife off his belt. The Marquis had half a second to scream before the blade was against his throat, at which point excessive vocalization became inadvisable. Sweat dappled the Marquis' forehead.

"You can't," he said, whispering so that his throat did not jump too much and render the point moot.

"I am soldier of the revolution and you are a condemned man with no friends and precious few resources. There will be no questions if I murder you now. I may even get a commendation."

"If you kill me you'll never know what I saw!"

"If you've no intention of telling me then I've no reason not to kill you."

The Marquis' face turned red. "Why are you doing this? The monsters who give you your orders are worse than the monsters you hunt."

"Maybe someday I'll hunt them, too."

The Marquis hesitated for just a moment more and then said, "Fine." Chastel released him. "I heard the guard call out to Fabre that his wife was here to see him."

"Fabre had no wife," Chastel said.

"I know," said the Marquis. "That's why I went to the window to watch. Two people were admitted to Fabre's cell."

"Who?"

"One I did not know. He was some sort of cripple, I think."

"A cripple?"

"I mean that he was disfigured. He wore a scarf over his head. The guard made him take it off and regretted it immediately. He looked as if someone had thrown hot lead into his face."

"Who was the other man?"

The Marquis took evident delight in what he said next: "Jean Pierre de Batz."

Chastel scoffed. "The Baron de Batz?"

"Yes. I understand it was you who foiled his attempt to rescue the king last year? I suppose, as a Gascon, he could not resist the dramatic potential of staying in Paris as a wanted man."

"What happened when they were admitted?"

"The Baron and the faceless man took Fabre from his cell, and all three of them went as if to make their escape. But they had the poor luck of running straight into new guards freshly rotated in. And then, well, that's when your wehr-wolf showed his true colors."

"Which of them was it? The Baron? The stranger?" Chastel grabbed him again. "Was it Fabre? Was it?"

"Get you clammy hands off me, damn it. Yes, Fabre is a wehr-wolf."

Chastel nodded. He had suspected all along. Fabre was not important enough to warrant rescue otherwise. Still, he had to be sure. What did the Baron de Batz of all people want with a wehr-wolf, though? And who was this faceless man?

Chastel sheathed his knife and gave the Marquis a droll salute. As he stood to leave the Marquis made a clicking sound with his tongue. "I was rather closely acquainted with your mother as well as your father," he said. "She came to me trying to find him. She had a particular taste for the lash, if I recall."

Chastel ignored him.

"That's not all she had a taste for," the Marquis continued. "I had a special nickname for her, actually: 'Liebling Nachttopf'. It's German. It means, 'My darling chamber pot'—"

Chastel kicked the Marquis in the face. His head bounced against the wall and he slumped over, dazed, bleeding. Chastel straightened his uniform, picked up his musket, and gave the Marquis another salute.

"Good day, citizen. Thank you for your cooperation."

Chastel left. It was time to hunt.

***

There was only an hour of daylight left by the time he got back to the inn. The place was so new it still did not have a name, and the room he rented was only recently converted from a stable and still retained many of the qualities of its former function. He did not mind. It afforded him privacy.