The Vampire's Angel (3 page)

Xavier squeezed her hand. “I have the strangest conversations with my fellow clergymen because of him. They either come from the aristocracy and spurn the common people or from the lower ends of society and sneer at the rich. I see both points of view, and they think me insane, on both sides. Only father could create a theology that allowed me to enter the rigid Catholic Church, with all of its emphasis on power and privilege, and not forget to honor everyone.”

“I miss him, too,” Catherine said softly. “He’d be so proud of you.”

“Speaking of the unrest,” Xavier mused aloud, “how would father handle this? He gave us no guidance about that. He insisted that we obey the king and act as middlemen between the monarchy and the people.”

“But what happens when everyone wants to overthrow the king?”

“No one wants to overthrow the king. You always take things to the extreme.”

“And you fail to see the possibilities,” she retorted. “If the Americans threw King George out of their lives, perhaps the French will dismiss Louis. Father envisioned stability so long as everyone respected each other, but with starvation and poverty and high taxes, things have to change. See why we need a salon here?” She stopped when a servant entered the room. “Oh look, dinner is served.”

“How can dinner possibly surprise you when you ordered it?”

“Don’t patronize me.”

He rolled his eyes at her. “I wonder what Michel thinks about all this? Do you think it affects the army yet?”

“He probably ignores it.”

“Stop it. Try to consider his point of view. Michel must be having a hard time reconciling his loyalty oath to the crown and what father taught us.”

“Father made one big mistake,” Catherine said, gripping her fork tightly. “He allowed Michel to enter the military too soon. The army has shaped him too much. He needed more time to see things through unbiased eyes. The army commands respect and obedience, and Michel got lost in that disciplined world.”

“It was a noble calling, Catherine. Michel wanted to please father by following in his footsteps.”

“I know that. But Michel doesn’t have Father’s independence. For example, look at your name. Everyone expected Papa to name you after some member of the monarchy, but he refused because he had served with a Basque general. To honor their friendship, he named you after that man’s favorite saint. So you walk around with a Basque name in the middle of Paris because of father’s friendship and respect for someone who helped him.” She said this in one breath, paused, took a drink of wine, and continued. “The difference being, that Michel would obediently name you Louis and be done with it.” She set her glass back down. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“Thank you so much for the history lesson. Are you finished?” His stomach clenched, knotting like it always did when he and Catherine argued.

“No. One more thing. Michel already cautioned me about the riots in a letter, remember? He can’t decide what to do. You see, that proves my point,” She finished triumphantly.

“No one has put you on trial. I agree, Michel’s afraid and it will be difficult for him. I remember sitting with Father while Michel asked over and over again about the paradox of obeying the king and helping the people. He explained that the monarchy, by its very nature, rules because we need an established order. But the king’s privileged position prohibits him from understanding the bourgeoisie and the poor. So the nobility exists to explain to each group how to behave.”

“Well, you listened to father’s lessons. I forgot half of what he said. I liked to look out the window. Michel must have stared at the ceiling too much, too,” she said sarcastically.

He set his fork down. “Can we forget about Michel before you start arguing with him, even when he’s not here?”

“You’re too good. You need a little more spite in your blood to spice up your life.”

“That’s why I have you.”

She giggled. “It is hard to live up to our name and change with the times.”

The name. Xavier heard a million times from his father and other relatives about the importance of the name. Saint-Laurent. A noble clan. How many times did he hear about his great-great uncle who tutored Philippe D’Orleans? Or the others who served various kings or rose to prominence in the army and church? Though his father had made a separate name for himself, all three children knew that they had come from a noble legacy of service and obligation. And sometimes, such a burden became cumbersome.

“Since you almost empathized with Michel,” Xavier announced as he pushed back from the table, “I’m leaving on that peaceful note.”

“Please stay. I love talking to you.”

“I have to return to the church.”

“Why? Do you have to wax a crucifix?”

“Catherine, please.”

“I’m sorry. Seriously, stay.”

“I really have to leave.”

Too late. She had figured it out.

“The garden!” She laughed as Xavier turned red with embarrassment. “You still try to grow edible food in that garden?” She escorted him to the door.

“Perhaps.”

She smiled indulgently and they kissed on the cheek before Xavier headed down the stairs, waving at her. She amazed him. One minute she wanted him to stay, the next she remembered that she had business. And she addressed major problems, atypical of most noble women who fretted about social gatherings and the latest fashions. Catherine went immediately to her desk and pored over family business almost every night.

He and Michel, however, hated family economics. His father had recognized this, too, and thus tutored Catherine in finance.

Catherine, the confident one, the one who did as she pleased and never looked back. Xavier longed for a morsel of her abandon and free spirit. He turned the corner, feeling content on this quiet spring day now that the rioting had ended and he could walk through the streets as the sun set behind him.

15 May 1789 Late evening

BACK AT HIS church, Xavier worked in his small garden even now, after darkness had fallen and the nearby lantern barely illuminated the street around it, let alone his humble plants. He didn’t care, because it relaxed him.

“Abbé?”

Startled, he whipped around.

“I’m sorry to startle you again.”

Xavier cleared his throat, nervous. It was the man from earlier in the day, with the long black hair and piercing brown eyes. “I didn’t know anyone was there. I saw you today, didn’t I? What’s your name?”

They stared at each other again until the stranger broke the silence.

“Thomas, Father. Thomas Lord.”

Xavier cocked his head, quizzical. “You’re not from Paris.”

“What gave me away?”

“Your accent.” He wiped his hands on his robe.

“I’m here on business.”

“Well, welcome to Paris. Let me know if I can be of any assistance.” Xavier wanted to say more, to keep this man near him, but he was at a loss for words. How strange. He didn’t even know him.

“I—I wondered if...can I go to confession? With you.”

Xavier smiled. “You’re not French, and you’re not Catholic, either.”

“No,” Thomas said sheepishly. “I’m not. I’m not Catholic, nor of any religion, really. And I’m not in Paris only because of business. I’m here by myself and felt lonely, and you seem friendly. I saw you protect that little girl earlier this evening and thought perhaps you could show me around Paris. I’m from America and wanted to see the rioting.” He stopped. “Sorry to babble.”

Xavier studied Thomas, noting his musculature, even in the dark. It made him think things he had no business thinking. “Sadly, I doubt you’ll find Paris too welcoming these days, but I would be happy to show you around.” He paused, considering. “May I ask you one thing?”

“By all means.”

“You needn’t lie anymore. Just ask if you want my company.”

“Can you forgive me, abbé? I was confused about your being a priest and what etiquette to use,” Thomas said delicately.

“You weren’t sure if I had the time for a heathen?” Xavier smiled. “Or did you fear some divine judgment? Well, don’t. I know most of my colleagues have such rigid standards, but I don’t believe in exclusion. As I said, I’d be delighted to show you Paris.”

“You don’t mind that I’m not Catholic?”

“Not all of us are so narrow-minded as to demand a certain brand of faith from everyone that we meet. All of us are God’s children, after all.”

“What am I supposed to call you, then?” Thomas asked, the fingers of one hand picking at the sleeve of his other arm. “Abbé? Father?”

“Since you don’t seek spiritual counseling, and so long as you promise not to enter my confessional, how about Xavier?”

Thomas grinned, and a strange little spark danced down Xavier’s spine. “Agreed,” he said. “What would you think of starting my tour of Paris at the Seine? I love the breeze and view of Paris from there.”

“I’d be delighted.” Xavier nodded and smiled in return.

Together, they sauntered toward the river, engaged in easy conversation. Xavier told Thomas about the riots, about the king, and about his view of the revolution. They chatted about mundane matters with no particular destination or motive. Xavier hated that the night finally ended when they returned to his church and bid adieu and he hoped, desperately so, to see this man again but his fear of rejection kept him from saying anything further.

16 May 1789 9:30 p.m.

IT WAS TOO dark. Xavier felt like a fool in the garden as he pretended to weed without the ability to see a foot in front of himself. He had come out here again tonight, immediately after dinner with Catherine, hoping that Thomas might return. But it was too late to count on a visit.

What had Xavier expected, anyway? His weakness angered him. Why did he hope for this forbidden dream and delude himself?

He had gone over their conversations a million times. They had talked freely about so much, the American revolution, monarchies, French politics, even religion. Thomas had at first resisted revealing his atheism but Xavier had guessed and pulled it out of him, then had the hardest time convincing him that it didn’t matter. Xavier divulged little of his own opinions, however, because he still struggled to share personal feelings. But in spite of their differences, Xavier loved Thomas’s bold presence.

Stop it, he told himself. You have a duty to God and the people. You may see Thomas if he needs assistance to honor your calling, but you must cease these unnatural yearnings.

Xavier picked himself off the ground and smelled the flowers in the soft breeze that blew through Paris, overpowering the other less attractive smells in the air. He collected himself and started toward the church. For the second night, his neighborhood was quiet except for the sounds of a few children and revelers, typical for a spring evening, and certainly not indicative of a riot.

He walked slowly toward the church and admired its simple, small beauty. The diocese had tried to close it a number of times but the parishioners kept the church alive. Xavier loved serving here, amidst the common people, helping them through their daily struggles with poverty and famine.

The sound of footsteps broke his contemplation.

“Abbé, I hoped to find you here. I’m sorry about the late hour. I was doing business.”

Xavier’s heart pounded when he saw the long black hair, glanced at the broad smile, and heard Thomas Lord’s confident voice.

“I thought you didn’t come to Paris on business alone.”

“I didn’t,” Thomas answered evenly. “But I still have matters to attend to. I promised not to lie to you anymore. I’ve kept my word.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

“No offense taken,” Thomas said, before smiling again.

“What can I do for you?” Xavier struggled for words but, too nervous, instead sounded like the authoritative priests he despised.

Thomas’s smile vanished and he frowned. “I didn’t come here to be insulted. I can entertain myself if it disrupts your plans.”

“No, no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way,” Xavier backpedaled. “I enjoy your company immensely. I just had some things on my mind. Please—”

“Perhaps we need to stop being so nervous with one another. Can we be friends? Pardon my forward behavior, but last night I felt an attraction to you and wanted your company and to see Paris through your eyes. I confess my ignorance of French custom, and I don’t know anything about the Catholic Church, so I don’t know if I’m crossing some boundary. But can we become friends without all of the pretense and nervousness?”

Xavier listened, exhilarated and terrified all at once.

“Excuse my boldness,” Thomas continued, “but I want companionship beyond the casual acquaintances I’ve met thus far. I love spending time with you. My friends say that my biggest fault is telling people exactly how I feel, but now you know.”

They stared at each other before Xavier glanced at the ground. Why me? he wondered. Thomas’s proposition came with innuendo. The mere idea of a personal friendship made Xavier nervous, but was Thomas suggesting something else? He was lost. His entire life he had fought his sexual attraction to men. He knew from an early age about the sin of such urges, but they came to him all too often. He entered seminary, hoping for a magical cure within the priesthood’s celibate world but instead found only more admonitions to control oneself, but no solutions.

“I overstepped my bounds,” Thomas quietly said and started to leave.

His heart pounding, Xavier forsook his shyness. “Please, come back. Forgive me.”

“Are you certain? Xavier, I can’t tell you what this means to me. But you have to stop apologizing. Every other sentence out of your mouth requests forgiveness. The Catholic Church’s teaching on guilt means too much to you.”

“I’m sorry, I only mean—”

“See? There you go again,” Thomas said, a gentleness in his tone that caused Xavier’s breath to catch in his throat.

Xavier smiled meekly as he almost apologized yet again. True to Thomas’s words, Xavier took the church’s teaching on humility to heart.