The Wolves of Paris

He was so rough he would have bruised a normal woman. She moaned like a whore, pushing her face down next to his ear so that her hot breath could wash against him. "Oh my God...oh yes...oh sir, oh God..." He actually bit her, and she gave the yelp that she knew he was looking for. If she gauged him right, he'd be bending her over for a spanking any moment now, but she had other ideas. Jumping up, she backed away from the bed a few inches, making enticing gestures and mischievous smiles. The sight of her stark alabaster skin in the moonlight was more than enough for de Batz, who stood and grabbed hold of her wrists, forcing one down the front of his breeches. Daciana widened her eyes and made appreciative noises. "Oh, yes!" she said. The Baron grinned.

"More iron there than in the entire Republican army, eh?"

She squeezed him some more, stroking him up and down and then wrapping her fingers around the tip, tugging and actually pulling him forward by it, bringing him to the window. She spied the candle on the table. Its hood teetered precariously. She rubbed the Baron's stiff prick as she edged closer and closer, murmuring to him: "Push me up against the wall and fuck me like a Rue Truse-Noinnan girl!"

The Baron was just about to say something, but Daciana didn't give him the chance. She lifted the lid from the candle and lit up the room, then threw herself onto the floor. Instantly realizing what was happening, de Batz knocked the candle off the table, but by then Chastel had let his arrow fly.

It was a decent shot, but the weapon had not seen use in a generation, and Chastel did not think to compensate for its weaknesses. The bolt buried itself in the windowsill. Chastel cursed and the Baron made a break for it. Chastel heard him scream as Daciana pounced, and then a pistol fired and the room filled with smoke. So much for keeping things quiet.

Throwing down the bow and shouldering his musket, Chastel tore down the stairs, out the front door and across the boulevard, kicking the door of the hideout in with one blow. Just as he came in the half-dressed Baron sprinted down the stairs, knife in one hand and spent pistol in the other. There was blood on his clothes but he seemed to have no pains moving, so evidently it was not his own. De Batz leapt the stair railing and threw the knife at Chastel. It was a useless gesture, as the weapon simply clattering against the wall, but it forced Chastel to duck and miss his chance for a shot.

De Batz kicked over the nearby table (Chastel supposed that, as a Gascon, he could not resist the dramatic touch) and ran into the pantry. Chastel heard the scrabble of claws on the stairs and knew Daciana was in pursuit. No mortal weapon could seriously harm her, but de Batz must have gotten in a good enough shot to slow her down. Side by side they burst into the pantry, seeing the hidden door behind the wine rack still dangling open and hearing the commotion from the cellar as de Batz roused the others.

The fugitives were already gone by the time Chastel got to the cellar, out the door and up into the street. Daciana rushed the stairs and Chastel clamored right behind her, his blood pounding in his ears. Daciana, catching the other wehr-wolf's scent, took off down the alley, but Chastel hesitated. The Baron would surely have gone the opposite direction, and Chastel hated to let him escape again. But his mission was Fabre, and besides, the Oath would not allow him to pursue a mortal while a wehr-wolf escaped. He shouted an alarm toward the street, hoping that there would be soldiers on their way to intercept de Batz, and then he was off.

He rounded the corner with musket raised and ready to fire, but Fabre was waiting for him. The body of the monster collided with his, knocking him over and driving the air from his lungs. Chastel's head spun as it struck the ground and the moon and stars swirled in his view, and then everything was blocked out by the wehr-wolf's hateful face, jaws already streaked with blood as they slavered and snapped. Chastel grabbed the monster's snout and twisted its head aside, but of course it was too strong for him, and pinned down as he was by the weight of the creature's body he could not hope to reach any of his weapons...

Daciana collided with Fabre and both of them turned in a whirling, snarling, snapping mass across the courtyard. Her fur was streaked with her own blood and Chastel knew that the bite of the other wehr-wolf could hurt her sorely. Fabre seemed to be larger and faster than she; she could not hold her own against him for long. Chastel hauled himself back to his feet and readied his musket, but he could not shoot without risking hitting Daciana with the fatal holy bullet. Instead he drew his knife and skirted the edges of the brawl. When they separated next he would wound Fabre in the haunches, slowing him enough for Daciana to finish him. In so doing he would expose himself and it would take Fabre less than a second to kill him, but at least he'd die knowing he had taken the monster with him...

But it didn't come to that. Fabre made a fatal mistake by releasing his hold on Daciana's shoulder so that he could make a bid for her throat. Daciana, who had feigned being more hurt than she was, pushed into him, and both went on their hind legs for a moment, teetering in a fatal dance before she seized his throat and tore it open. A human-like scream escaped the wolf's jaws, and when it fell to the ground it once again became Fabre d'Eglantine, his poet's tongue now silenced forever. Daciana collapsed next to him and reflexively reverted to human form. Chastel ran to her side, propping her head up. There might be time to save her if—

"He's not alone..." she whispered, through bloodstained lips.

Chastel heard the pad of heavy paws on the paving stones. The air went limpid and chill. Chastel thought he heard thunder but realized that was the sound of the approaching beast's growl. There, on the other end of the courtyard, the tips of its fur painted silver in the moonlight, was the largest wehr-wolf Chastel had ever seen, a monster the likes of the old Beast of family legend. Its one eye was a ball of blazing red but the other socket was a hollow pit, and its face and muzzle were hairless and covered in scars. "The faceless man," Chastel said, reaching for his musket.

The wehr-wolf snarled. Chastel's heart seized up. The spell of the wehr-wolf's gaze, he knew, was the secret of the supernatural fear that it inspired, but he dared not look away from it. Summoning all his strength, he stood. He tried to lift his musket but he could not; his body betrayed him. His mind wanted to shoot but the rest of him wanted to run. If he let himself turn his back he'd be dead before he took a step. Daciana was too weak to fight; she might even be dying. Only Chastel was left to face this.

Hel remembered the story of how his grandfather stared down the Beast of Gevaudan. He tried to think of a prayer, but none came to mind. The monster loped toward him and the unnatural fear grew more potent and it was all Chastel could do to keep breath in his lungs. His musket felt like the weight of the world and he wanted to drop it, but instead he closed his fingers on it as tight as he could, though he still could not find the strength to raise it. He tried to think of a prayer, any prayer, any word of scripture, anything to break the spell and let him shoot, shoot to save his life, shoot to honor his family's oath, but nothing came. The wolf laid its ears back, lips curled, the rank pestilence of its breath wafting over him. I have to shoot, he thought, I have to shoot, I have to shoot, I HAVE TO—

The monster leaped and its jaws opened to bring the death that he'd always known he was destined for. But then he realized that the musket was in his hand, and that he was pointing it straight ahead, and his finger was on the trigger! The wehr-wolf's one good eye was like a burning red bullseye and then there was flash and a bang and a blast of black smoke as Chastel fired. Blinded, he heard the charging monster's cry of pain and the heavy thud of its body on the paving stones. When the smoke cleared he saw the bloodied corpse of a man at his feet. It was over. He could move again.

Chastel looked the body over, but it was no good. As the Marquis had said, the man's face was nothing but a mass of scar tissue with barely any feature remaining. Most likely he was some beggar, but how had he come to have the curse of the wehr-wolf, and to fall in with Fabre and de Batz? Unless the sans-culottes had apprehended the Baron (which Chastel doubted), it would probably remain a mystery.

Soon the courtyard was swarming with armed men. From all sides, residents of Paris peered from their windows, half-hiding behind the shutters for fear of being informed on as "counter-revolutionary spies" if they appeared to take too much interest in business not their own but still unable to resist watching the spectacle. One soldier prodded the bodies with his bayonet. "What's all this shooting of naked men in the streets? And a woman too?"

"Woman? I see no woman," said Chastel.

"She was right—" and the soldier turned to where Daciana had lain, but now she was gone, leaving only a few streaks of blood on the paving stones. "That's funny," said the soldier, "I'd swear she was there. And where did you get that dog?"

Daciana growled as she trotted to Chastel's side. Her wounds were already half healed. Fabre, it seemed, had lacked the strength to do any lasting harm. Chastel put a hand on the back of her neck. "You'd do well to ask fewer questions," he said. The soldier blinked.

Several sans-culottes were carrying away the body of the faceless man. Chastel joined them, and when they lifted the corpse he saw something: a mark on the dead man's hand, a scar in a shape that somehow seemed familiar. He was not the only one who noticed; a young soldier standing next to him could not suppress a gasp at the sight. Chastel locked eyes with the soldier and for a moment they stared each other down. Then the soldier turned and ran, and Chastel, after a moment, gave chase, leaving the others blinking and astonished.

The fleeing sans-culotte turned down a side street and stopped to catch his breath. No sooner were his feet still than Chastel was on him, pushing him further into the alley. "What's the meaning of this?" the fleeing man said.

"Pardon me, citizen," said Chastel. Daciana trotted up to his side again. "I think you and I have matters to discuss. That man in the courtyard with the ruined face, you know who he was, don't you?"

The soldier froze. "I'll tell you nothing," he said, "I'm no informer."

"No?" said Chastel, and paused. "Then just what are you?" He reached out and plucked the hat off the soldier's head. Long curly hair tumbled from underneath it. "Lady Leta!" he said. "So this is where General Santerre is hiding you. Clever enough; I've known both women and nobles to disguise themselves as common soldiers, but this is the first time I've seen both."

Leta quivered with rage. Chastel gave her hat back, and she shoved it on her head, taking a minute to tuck her curls underneath.

"Perhaps you'll be a bit more cooperative now."

Leta spat at him. "I won't be threatened, you republic pig."

"No threats; just reason" said Chastel. "If you don't tell me who that man was I'll have no choice but to direct the Committee to question you. But if you tell me then they'll already know everything they need to when I submit my report and there'll be no need to identify my informant. The choice is yours, citizeness, but I remind you that Santerre is not a Committee member, and his influence has limits."

Leta considered this for a moment. Then, very quietly, she told Chastel what he wanted to know. And for the first time in many, many years, Chastel was truly surprised.

***

18 Germinal, Year II:

Santerre went to the window. In the courtyard, Robespierre himself was giving a speech about the new dawn of the revolution, or something lie that. Robespierre, the Incorruptible, standing on the scaffold before the guillotine, addressing the masses, his voice rising up through the clear morning air:

"All the tyrants aligned against the French people will perish. All the factions who enforce their power by destroying your freedom will perish. You will not make peace, but you will give it to the world by taking it from the hands of criminals. To make war on injustice is the path to immortality; to favor it is the path to the scaffold."

Santerre shut the window. He turned back to Chastel, who stood despite an available chair right next to him, cleaning the stock of his musket. The general coughed. "So that's your report, is it?" he said.

"Fabre is dead, and with him an even greater threat to the Republic," said Chastel.

Santerre sighed. "You break my heart. I cannot bring this report to the Committee. They will believe even less of it than I do. I have no choice but turn you over for what I expect will be an immediate trip to the guillotine."

"You must do your duty, like the rest of us," said Chastel.

"Even if I believed for one moment this wehr-wolf business," Santerre said, "this nonsense about your so-called faceless man—"

"Ah, but I do not call him that now," said Chastel. "I call him by his true name, or rather, the name that—"

He was interrupted by a knock on the door. Santerre looked up and then visibly paled. There, in the doorway, flanked by four blue-coated members of the National Guard, was Louis Saint-Just. In one hand he held a warrant, and in the other, shackles. He nodded at Santerre. One of the guardsmen came forward. Santerre swallowed. "So it's time then?"

Saint-Just nodded. Santerre wiped the sweat from his brow. "What are the charges against me? No, don't bother. It hardly matters. Let's go."

Halfway to the door he looked back at Chastel, whose face betrayed the most meager sliver of pity. "Did you know I was the one who took the former king to his execution? When I came, he knew exactly why I was there, but I did not know what to say to him. We just stood there and it was he who finally spoke up. All he said was: 'Let's go.' I've thought about that often. Sometimes I think—"

But he stopped, and allowed himself to be taken without another word. Chastel watched him go. He expected them to take him into custody too, but they did not. Saint-Just did not even look at him. Once they were gone one other man remained, a thin man with a narrow face. The stranger went to the window and opened it, inhaling the morning air, then sat down at Santerre's desk. He folded his hands before him.

"So," he said, "you are Chastel?"

Chastel nodded.

"I have heard of you. My name is Fouche. Now that Santerre has been relieved of his command, the security of Paris is in my hands."

"Am I to be arrested as well?" said Chastel.

"Have you done anything to warrant it?"

"Has Santerre?"

"That's not for us to decide. I understand we have you to thank for disposing of Fabre?"

Chastel nodded again.

"I apologize that I was not here soon enough to spare you the trouble of reporting twice, but if you please?"

So Chastel told his story again. Whereas Santerre had interrupted many times with questions and exclamations, Fouche said nothing until Chastel elaborated about the faceless man:

"Do you recall an incident, Citizen Fouche, when our former king was imprisoned in the Tuileries and an angry mob of citizens confronted him about his crimes against the people?"

"I do."

"My informant, who was with the king that day, tells me that among the many tales of atrocity recounted was that of Robert-Francois Damien, a servant who was tortured to death in a public spectacle for the crime of, quite accidentally, wounding the old king, Louis XV, with a penknife."

Fouche made an impatient gesture. "So what?"

"With the story of Damien in mind, the citizens asked Louis if, to make up for his grandfather's cruelty, he would shed some small amount of his blood as a symbol of his fealty to the new Republic. And so, with a penknife, they carved a fleur-de-lis into the palm of his hand. The man I killed last night, the wehr-wolf who helped Fabre escape, also had a scar in the shape of the fleur-de-lis on his palm."

Fouche raised a single eyebrow. "The k—that is, the former king?"

Chastel nodded.

"He whose blood baptized our new Republic? He who died before all of Paris over a year ago? "

"Evidently he did not. We know from the example of Fabre that they who make the trip to the guillotine are not always they who were sentenced to it. And we also know that the former king, for reason of his security, employed a double, a man who looked like him in every respect, to foil assassins. Louis must have escaped custody and let his bodyguard and double die in his place."

"And then disfigured himself so that he would never be recognized, I suppose. And do you think Louis was this 'wehr-wolf' all along?"

"Perhaps. But more likely he made a bargain with powers unholy after his escape."

"To what end?"

"Revenge."

Chastel took a pinch of snuff while Fouche stared at him. The clock ticked away the minutes.

"Captain Chastel," Fouche said, "why should I not report you as either a madman, a liar, and in either case most likely a counter-revolutionary royalist conspirator this very moment?"

Chastel shrugged. "I have heard that they call you 'The Executioner of Lyons.'"

"What of it?"

"Is it true that after Lyons fell you took the royalist rebels out into the fields and had them blasted to death with grapeshot? That you guillotined 1,800 prisoners in just one month? That you tied prisoner's hands, floated them out on rafts, and sank them into the river?"

"They were enemies of liberty."

"Perhaps. But it seems to me, Citizen Fouche, that even if you do not believe in wehr-wolves you are someone with experience in seeing men become monsters. And you know that in an age of monsters, no one is ever truly safe. How safe will you be in a month? How safe do you think General Santerre felt when he was where you are now? Given all that, don't you want someone around you who has experience fighting monsters?"

Fouche met Chastel's eye. Chastel did not blink. Fouche turned his chair toward the window.

"That will be all," he said.

And Chastel was free to go.

***

In June of 1794 (Messidor of Year II), Maximilien Robespierre was one of the most powerful men in Europe. Under him, 25,000 people were executed as enemies of the state. But by July (Thermidor) Robespierre was deposed, and he himself went to the guillotine. Louis Saint-Just, the Angel of Death, was arrested along with Robespierre, and preceded him to the scaffold. Observers made note of his stoicism.

Antoine Joseph Santerre survived the Reign of Terror, and like most surviving prisoners was eventually released. However, his political, military, and business careers were ruined, and he died in poverty.

Jean Pierre de Batz escaped from Paris with his head intact and continued to agitate for the downfall of the Republic. Arrested in Auvergne, he escaped and fled to Switzerland. He remained an ardent royalist his entire life.

The Marquis de Sade was also released after Robespierre's fall, but seven years later he was imprisoned once again, this time by Napoleon. Altogether, he spent thirty-two of his seventy-four years of life in some form of incarceration.

Catherine Theot was eventually acquitted of all charges, but had already died in prison anyway. The doctor who examined her body found no evidence of pregnancy, Messianic or otherwise.

Joseph Fouche, despite his well-publicized zeal for the Reign of Terror, became one of Robespierre's loudest and most influential critics, rallying the legislature against him and the other Committee members. Fouche was made Minister of Police under Napoleon.