In The Heart of A Traitor

Chapter Two

Marie sits happily by the small fire she prepared with a small piece of bread in one hand and an even smaller cup of soured wine in her other hand. Marie cannot remember the last time she forgot her fears and anxiety, and simply enjoyed the silence. Having grown up in an atmosphere of estranged women mourning the loss of their sons, and fathers swearing revenge and intent on avengement, she can well love solitude. Her own father had died when she was but twelve at the hands of the revolutionists when he made a small dagger for a fleeing lord. Of course, as a simple blacksmith he didn't know he was serving royalty, but he was killed anyways along side of his ill-fated patronage on the guillotine. Marie's mother, having had so much death and sorrow in her short life became ill with despair, and later died insane. Pitiful? Very, and heart-breaking that these people should destroy themselves for lack of a better idea to live or to die for. Marie had not been taken in by any kind hearted relative, nor any well-meaning neighbor, but was left alone. Eventually the creditors came to collect the taxes that were then impossible, so Marie was evicted from the only home she had. Living off the streets for sometime, she became ill. Found by a doctor and possibly the only warm hearted person of thousands of cold and indifferent hearts that passed her by. He took her to his wife, nursed her to health, and found her a job as an apprentice to a tailor. Soon enough, Marie was able to rent out the small room which she now sits, contentedly smiling to herself. There is little time to eat anything, time passes by fast and there is a coat to be fitted to a certain Monsieur Aron Du Coeur! She had met his mother yestermorn, a small, pale woman who did not seem particularly wealthy, but perhaps she was. It is not wise to presume any amount of wealth in France; the Authorities come and take it under the name of equality, "To distribute to the people!" though everyone knows that no one receives a penny but the politicians--unless it is in the form of a bribe. No, the wealthy politicians are made wealthy by the people's money, by the rules of the people, who were given to them by the politicians. They were wealthy though they dressed averagely or even poorly, the tailors knew. And Marie is a tailor. She sighs, rich politicians don't pay better then poor kings. In fact, sometimes they don't pay at all, seeing as their 'service to the people is payment enough.' Marie begins to hope that the Du Coeurs are poor, just because they wouldn't be such liars. Turning a sharp corner, Marie runs into a middle-aged man, causing her to drop her bundles into the muddy street.

"Watch where you are going, wench!" he shouts at her, instead of helping her undo his carelessness. If Marie had been thoughtless or careless, she might have shouted back, but she knows a politician when she sees one. The man hurries on, and she continues rescuing her items before they are ruined. A kind voice startles her by saying:

"Here, I saw what happened! Let me do this for you. Unluckily I was too far away to do anything, I do hope you will accept my apologies." Glancing up, Marie sees a young man, perhaps in his thirties, picking up her bundles.

"Merci, Monsieur." She says gratefully.
"No, call me Aron, and may I ask your name?"
"Marie. You are not Aron Du Coeur, are you?"
"Indeed I am!" he replies surprised, "Do not tell me that my fame has spread so far through France?" he laughed.
"I do believe it has, seeing as I have come to measure you for a new coat, by order of Madame Du Coeurs."
"Come then, my house is down this street, I will escort you there." And so they walked the few steps to the kitchen door, those steps that had proceeded his fame.

In The Heart of A Traitor

Hi all,
I had been considering that instead of writing merely short stories, write a book in chapters.

In The Heart of A Traitor
dedicated to J. T, who suggested I write something, and N.S, who I know will appreciate this.
~M.P. Surprenant

Chapter One
The streets of Paris are dark and nearly empty, there is a curfew now. Very few individuals would dare to stalk these byways--especially on this night December 15 of the year 16---, but one figure slumps along as if he owns the very coldness in the wind that plays with his tattered clothes. Dressed in a drab black, he seems to fit the rotting aroma of which he breaths; the perfume of corpses long decayed of which the French authorities savored so willingly. It cannot be said if this man enjoys his situation, but he is at least content. With long strides, his shabby boots make towards the corner house's door that he does not knock but enters silently.

"Madame Cu Coeur, is your son at home?" he asks the pale face that he sees, and she nods slightly. Calling, her son appears, and squeezing her hand slightly in a reassuring way, and lights the candle. It is a small flame, but enough for their needs, and our two gentlemen take a careful seat.

"Aron, we were betrayed." the man states quietly. The younger man's face turns ashen, and asks:

"Who did it?" Oh those simple words! If we had all the answers we need when we need them, the world would be so simple and quite boring. It was a simple statement, and a simple question, but there is no simple solution. The other shook his head, saying:

"Luis does not know, nor does anyone else. It was a well done job-Domina was captured and killed not an hour ago, and I do not think that even he knew who it was."

"Maurice," Aron says brokenly, "Domina? His poor, poor wife." Aron whispered.

"I fear she is next, she was arrested also." Maurice continues, ever so painfully. Perhaps he means well, or does he? Is there no bitterness in his heart as he gives these grievous tidings, and does he want someone else to feel pain, as he did? What can Maurice gain by telling Aron the same news that so many have heard before and withered from the very mention of death of another loved one. In the past Maurice and Aron were never close friends, nor were they bitter enemies. The candle flickers, then dies, and Maurice is headed back to his lodgings. Not a home, just a place to rest, for as far as anyone knows Maurice has no home, or ever had one. The rumor has it that Maurice appeared one gray day just before the secret rebellion began, men who would fight Robespierre and any other communist officials in France, before all their freedoms were lost. Some of the more crushed believed that it was hopeless to fight, while others insisted that the more they fought, the more rights they would lose, and so did nothing. "Because," as they said, "that is how this hell began."