Joy V. Sheridan writes

Charity Amour

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO part 2

Outside, the dawn light was beginning to break through the draperies of night, so that though many of the artificial illuminations had spluttered waxily and died, there was yet a tolerable light irradiating the house, the grounds and the actions of all mobile, physical life.  

The courtyard was busy with the activities of chaise, landau, horse - for those that were fit enough to depart were doing, precisely that. Some of the servants and coachmen were, however, numbly setting about their tasks, for it was more usual if the Comte this, or Marquise that were invited to attend one of the functions at the Château des Amourettes, then they would not depart until after mid-day. Thus allowing the hard-done-by lackeys the privilege of a few hours sound rest! Not on this occasion! 

There was more than a mild suggestion of haphazard fracas about the place, the cobbles ringing not only to the heavy roll of metal and wood wheel, but to the curt oaths and ill-placed footings of the disorientated. The morn presaged to be fine and cold, so at least, those who laboured were spared the whippings of icy rain upon their muscle-bound backs. 

Had the paid men of rich and aristocratic masters, - and mistresses - been less panic-stricken in their endeavours to concur immediately with their employers’ requests, they might have seen the lights which bobbed up and down all about the circumference of the Château and its estate – might have seen the stealthy figures, lowbellied like foxes, greying through the grasses, settling themselves like rooks amid tree-branches – might have heard the odd warbling of an unseasonal bird chortling here and there about the place, might have smelt the singe of righteous indignation and voracious, fervent, puritanically inspired fanaticism, spiced with repression, disease, envy, discomfort, avarice and hunger – might have seen the bales of dry straw thrust amidst the exquisite floricultural displays in glassy hot-houses – might have seen the frozen statuary, the forerunners of the coming Revolution, blinking, bright-eyed with zealous abhorrence, ready to melt into action by the strengthening of the light. 

They did not see this. Nor indeed their passengers, many of whom reached for the familiar security of their luxuriant interiors, much as a sleeping man may turn to himself, huddling his arms about his form, to make himself more comfortable amidst his slumbers. Of those not taken by the river of dreams and forgetfulness, they merely carried on their business amatory, from where it had been interrupted in the house, blinds slammed tight against inquisitive on-lookers. Fortunate those conveyed hence. For the Château des Amourettes was preordained by this new brotherhood to become something more than a hotbed of amour.

It had been allotted the fiery finale of man-kindling hell-fire and, as such, was by those interlopers now about the place, destined to be razed, burnt to the ground. Completely. With no thought given to those souls inside - good, bad, or indifferent - who might happen to be housed therein. 

“Sacrifices are always made at times like this.” 

The eloquent and inspiring visionary had said: only now his words were to be galvanised into fact - “When those innocents are gone to better places, they will thank us for setting them free from this den of iniquity, and too, from the corrupting influence of those dedicated denizens, apostolic subtle persuaders of the Black one!” 

Such was the marrow which flew through the bones of the dawnlight. As if the drama were foreknown, those few, small creatures who had received sustenance and hospitality from the house and its occupiers ran in diverse routes to the very edges of the estate – and beyond.