Chapter Text
July 12, 1789.
Oscar’s eyelids fluttered open at the sound of hushed voices outside her bedroom.
Her father’s was one of them, his voice low and concerned, though she couldn’t make out his words. He always sounded concerned these days, his stern resolve replaced by a solemn worry as he silently watched his long-coveted son suffer. She imagined it must be difficult for him, knowing the child he raised to be strong, to be fearless, to be his successor and the heir to the House of Jarjayes, was wasting away before his eyes. There was a cruel irony in it. He had raised her, trained her, shaped her from the very beginning to carry on his legacy after his death, and now she was the one who was dying.
Dying. The word had hovered over the Jarjayes household since she’d taken to her bed, since the doctor had declared her sickness terminal. Nanny had sobbed as the doctor delivered the death sentence, cursing the military for their callous refusal to let her rest. If only she’d been allowed some time off…
Yes, the past few weeks had been filled with if onlys: If only she’d been allowed some time off… If only she’d sought treatment sooner… If only she’d remained in the Royal Guard…If only she’d married Girodelle…If only she’d been raised a woman…
The whispered conversation outside her door grew more heated, punctuated by a single, undeniable name that hung in the air like a death knell.
“I’m allowing this only because I know how much she cares for you, Andre.”
Ah.
So that was who the other voice had been.
Andre had visited a handful of times in the past few weeks, but he’d always seemed distracted, his remaining eye unfocused, his mind elsewhere. Likely on the growing tension in Paris, on the hypothetical that was quickly becoming an inevitability: That the French Guard would be forced to take up arms and march against the people of Paris. It was a march that, Oscar knew, would break her men’s hearts, and that, for many, it was a march from which there would be no return. And it was a march that Oscar, who would have willingly given her life to save her men from the clutches of death, was powerless to stop.
The door creaked open, the dim candlelight from the hall spilling into the darkened room. She could make out his shadowy silhouette, resplendent in his French Guard uniform, against the light of the corridor. A weak smile graced her lips. “Hello, Andre.”
Andre crossed the floor, his steps seeming stiff, almost practiced, and knelt at her bedside. “How are you feeling, Oscar?” he asked, his brow creased with worry.
Oscar shrugged in a vain attempt to feign nonchalance, covering her mouth with her hand as she coughed weakly. “I’ve been better. But what news of the Guard? Any changes since I last saw you?”
Andre’s face darkened and he looked away from her, his dark hair covering half of his face and making his expression unreadable. Oscar reached out to touch his shoulder. “Please, Andre…they’re still my men…I have a right to know.”
He turned back to her, his one eye filled with sadness…and a twinge of something else. “We’ve been given the order to march from Tuileries Plaza…tomorrow.”
Tomorrow!
Oscar’s heart clenched. It was so soon, too soon…
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me earlier?” she asked, her voice laced with anger as she threw off the blanket and struggled to sit up.
“Oscar, please–” Andre stood, trying to push her back down into the pillows, but she swatted his hands away before he could touch her.
“Andre, if we leave now, we can still stop them. Just get my uniform–”
“No, Oscar.” His voice was firm, his one eye shimmering with tears as he said it. The weight of his words hung in the air between them. Andre, who had indulged her every whim, who she knew would willingly give his life if it meant her happiness, was now denying her.
Oscar slumped against the pillows, unable to bring herself to look at him. He sat on the edge of her bed, his voice shaking as he spoke. “They only told us this morning, Oscar,” he said, his words laced with quiet anger. “It was as if they knew that when they told us that we would resist…that we would revolt…”
Oscar’s eyes widened. “Have they–”
“Alain and several others have already refused to march. But in the end, I…I don’t think we’ll have a choice.” There was a flicker of something in his eye before he laughed mirthlessly, refusing to meet her gaze. “I’m sure it will be nothing, you know? Just a warning, a demonstration…”
But Oscar saw the truth in his gaze, realized what that something was.
Fear.
And Andre, her Andre, was lying to her.
“No,” she said softly, her hand finding his. “No, it won’t be.”
He shook his head, a soft smile gracing his lips as he tenderly pulled the blanket up to Oscar’s chest. “No, I think it will be. We’ll brandish our bayonets at them, just scare them a bit…”
But Oscar could tell his words were meant to convince himself more than her.
“Andre, please, don’t go. Your eye…I’m sure you could get some sort of exemption…” Her voice shook with desperation as she clung to him. He couldn’t leave her behind, not now, not when they’d spent the past twenty-five years of their lives together. Not when there was so much between them still left unsaid. She would not allow it.
“No, Oscar.” His voice was softer this time, sadder, as her desperate eyes met his own. His dark hair fell forward as he looked down at her, revealing the scarred remains of the eye he had lost. She reached up to touch his face, her thumb tracing the scar as she held his gaze. And when she looked into his remaining eye, she saw that it was filled with steely resolve, and she knew that no one, not even her, was going to change his mind.
So she didn’t try to. Instead, she asked a question, made one final request of the loyal servant she’d spent her life with.
“Do you love me, Andre?” Oscar asked, barely daring to utter the words.
“You know that I do, Oscar.” His voice was a gentle caress, his fingers light he brushed her damp hair from her feverish brow. Their faces were inches apart, and she could feel his breath as she fought to keep her own steady.
“Then kiss me.”
Her voice, though a whisper, was stronger than she expected, evocative of the authority she had once held, the woman she had once been. Brigadier General Oscar François de Jarjayes, the woman once tasked with defending the queen, the woman who had once commanded the Royal Guard, the woman who had once defied the order to fire on the people and survived. She had always survived, always lived to fight another day. Always strong, always steady, always content to stand alone. Until now.
Oscar’s eyelids fluttered shut as Andre closed the gap between them, his dark hair brushing her cheek as he lifted her chin from the pillow. Her heart pounded behind her ribcage as his breath grazed her lips, soft and gentle as a butterfly’s wings. She felt her chest tighten into a knot, the pressure crushing her lungs like an iron vice. Is this how it feels to be in love?
But Oscar’s body betrayed her, and she tore herself from him, from what almost had been. She turned away from him, away from Andre, feeling hot blood splatter against her palms as she coughed into her cupped hands. Oscar drew her knees to her chest, her body convulsing at the mercy of the illness that devoured her lungs.
She felt his gaze on her as it always had been, ever-watching, ever-worried, ever-loyal. Andre, her steadfast companion. Andre, who had always loved her. Andre, the man she now knew she loved in return, the man she now knew she loved too late. Oh, too late!
Oscar caught her breath, her chest heaving as she lay on her back, her bloodstained hands folded over her stomach as it rose and fell, fingers interlaced to stop them from trembling. "I'm so sorry, I don't know what I was thinking,” she said, the words spilling from her lips before she could stop them. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, to meet his one green eye and see the worry, or worse, the pity, in his gaze. “I don't want you to get sick, too. Please forgive me, I-"
But Andre gently placed a finger on her lips, stopping her mid-sentence. He reached for her hand, his fingers reverent as he lifted her still-shaking hand to his lips. Her hand was pale, blue veins visible under near-translucent skin, and the pallor of her sickness was all the more evident against his own healthy complexion. Oscar’s breath caught. “Andre, I–”
But the words died on her lips as he kissed her hand softly, and her blue eyes met his. What she found in his gaze was not worry, nor pity, but something else.
Love.
It was the kind of love that followed her everywhere she went, from the glittering halls of Versailles to the rolling hills of Arras to the grimy streets of Paris. It was the kind of love that carried her home when she was too drunk to carry herself. It was the kind of love that watched in silence as she flung herself at the feet of another, that ached for her as she mourned the woman she could not be. The kind of love that held her as she cried, that cared for her when she was hurt. The kind of love that laughed at her jokes, that indulged her desires, that celebrated her victories, that grieved her losses. A quiet, steadfast love that supported from the shadows, easily overlooked in the bright fullness of life, now painfully evident in the dark pall of sickness and death.
And yet, it was the fierce kind of love that would take a bullet for her.
Andre gently laid Oscar’s hand beside her on the blanket, his own hands traveling to her face. His palms were cool against her flushed cheeks as he kissed her forehead, Oscar’s eyes fluttering shut as his lips grazed her fevered skin. His hands caressed the curve of her jawline as he kissed both cheeks, his delicate fingers lifting her chin as his lips traveled to her neck. A gasp escaped Oscar’s lips as he kissed down to her collarbone, each one slow and gentle, ending at the scooped neckline of her nightgown.
He lifted his lips from her skin, his gaze remaining locked with hers. For a moment, Oscar thought that he was going to lean in and kiss her lips, that she was going to have to push him away again, that she was going to have to break his heart and her own. But what he said next did the task for her.
"I'll kiss you properly when you’re well."
Oscar nodded, resisting the hot tears that welled in her eyes, and prayed, against logic, against reason, to every God that would listen, that there would be a when, that there would come a day when she was well and he was alive and they were free.
Andre unbuttoned his coat as he lay down next to her on top of the blanket, once again brushing her damp hair from her forehead as she breathed in his essence. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest calming her still-racing heart. Oscar could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong, as she sank into his embrace.
As they lay together, Oscar felt her eyelids droop, her breathing, painful and weak as it was, becoming slow and even. But there was something she wanted, something she needed to say, something that had lingered in the back of her mind since Andre first entered her room. Something that kept her from falling into the comforting darkness that beckoned her. She couldn’t falter, not now, not when tonight could be her last, or tomorrow could be his.
"Andre," she said softly.
"What is it?" he asked, looking at her with concern, his hand instinctively going to her forehead.
"I love you too," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He smiled at her, the same gentle smile she’d come to know, come to love. "I know, Oscar," he replied, kissing her forehead once again as she drifted into the waiting respite of sleep.
“I know.”