couldn’t work in his favor with the court but was from the same family that had produced Amandine.
He finally fell asleep, very late at night, listening to the snores of Fourbier and Darton from their thin pallets on the other side of the tent.
Someone screeched.
He awoke with a jolt. He sat up, seeing flames flickering outside his tent. As he flung off his blanket, he heard a ripping noise and realized the wall of his tent just above his head had a knife protruding. He rolled from his pallet, reaching for his sword. A small form stumbled through the gap. He gripped the girl’s arm—Charlotte. A half second later, Ondine was thrust through and then Mademoiselle Hélène struggled through, gripping a knife.
“Fire,” she panted. “Our tent is on fire.”
Jean-Louis froze for only a second before shouting, “Fire! Au feu ! Fourbier! Darton! Everything out, everyone out!”
His men had rehearsed an emergency departure—seizing first the boxes of official papers and weapons before rushing back in for cooking supplies, trunks, and furniture.
Jean-Louis lifted Ondine and grabbed Charlotte around the waist to rush them outside and deposit them with Colonel Hardi, emerging from his own tent across the dirt alley, holding up his breeches with one hand and shouting at his servants. Mademoiselle Hélène was halfway out of the tent flap when Jean-Louis lifted her. He left her at Colonel Hardi’s side. His friend picked up the screaming Ondine and handed her to Mademoiselle Hélène.
Jean-Louis turned away to assess the danger. The smaller tent was completely engulfed in flames, and servants and officers on all sides were yanking down the closest tents to drag them away. His men tore down his command tent, throwing rugs on it and stamping out sparks, trying to limit the damage to the already burning wall.
There was a loud bang . A musket. Men shouted. Another bang as Jean-Louis ran to Mademoiselle Hélène and dragged her and Ondine to the ground, trying to cushion their fall and not land on top of them. Hardi pulled little Charlotte down and crawled under a wagon as another bang sounded. Splinters rained down on them.
Mademoiselle Hélène babbled something about candles and Jean-Louis nodded. She must have left a candle lit.
Jean-Louis shouted, and soldiers scrambled between the neighboring tents. One man called out. Jean-Louis strode over to see: three muskets—rifled muskets for greater accuracy—with smoking barrels, their matches still smoldering, in a heap behind a nearby tent.
Fourbier ran up. “Monsieur le Colonel, perhaps it was a Franc-Comtois, seeking to assassinate you?”
“Why me, Fourbier? They would plot to kill Condé, not me. And if they were after me, they would have lit my tent on fire, not Mademoiselle Hélène’s.” The immediate threat seemed to have dissipated, but his heart still pounded. They scanned the area, jerking at every noise.
Fourbier stared at the rifles, barely masking his shock. He cleared his throat. “Do you think, Monsieur, they were aiming at—”
The two of them stood in silence. Jean-Louis took a deep breath, thinking how close someone had come to killing his daughter and everyone around her. Tent fires were notoriously hard to contain. Even with rifled muskets, shots went wild, especially in the dark.
“Find out if anyone was shot.” Jean-Louis swallowed hard. “Send for my carriage and horses. Help me with a clean shirt and coat, and I will speak to Condé immediately. We leave as soon as I have permission.”
“Oui, Monsieur.” Fourbier trotted off, pulling off his nightcap and brushing at his hair with his free hand.
Jean-Louis scrubbed at his scalp and wondered if his wig and hat had survived, then looked thoughtfully at the smoldering heap of Mademoiselle Hélène’s belongings. He shivered in the cold night air. When he strode back to the wagon where the woman and two girls still huddled, Ondine’s sobs were fading to sniffles and whimpers.
He finally fell asleep, very late at night, listening to the snores of Fourbier and Darton from their thin pallets on the other side of the tent.
Someone screeched.
He awoke with a jolt. He sat up, seeing flames flickering outside his tent. As he flung off his blanket, he heard a ripping noise and realized the wall of his tent just above his head had a knife protruding. He rolled from his pallet, reaching for his sword. A small form stumbled through the gap. He gripped the girl’s arm—Charlotte. A half second later, Ondine was thrust through and then Mademoiselle Hélène struggled through, gripping a knife.
“Fire,” she panted. “Our tent is on fire.”
Jean-Louis froze for only a second before shouting, “Fire! Au feu ! Fourbier! Darton! Everything out, everyone out!”
His men had rehearsed an emergency departure—seizing first the boxes of official papers and weapons before rushing back in for cooking supplies, trunks, and furniture.
Jean-Louis lifted Ondine and grabbed Charlotte around the waist to rush them outside and deposit them with Colonel Hardi, emerging from his own tent across the dirt alley, holding up his breeches with one hand and shouting at his servants. Mademoiselle Hélène was halfway out of the tent flap when Jean-Louis lifted her. He left her at Colonel Hardi’s side. His friend picked up the screaming Ondine and handed her to Mademoiselle Hélène.
Jean-Louis turned away to assess the danger. The smaller tent was completely engulfed in flames, and servants and officers on all sides were yanking down the closest tents to drag them away. His men tore down his command tent, throwing rugs on it and stamping out sparks, trying to limit the damage to the already burning wall.
There was a loud bang . A musket. Men shouted. Another bang as Jean-Louis ran to Mademoiselle Hélène and dragged her and Ondine to the ground, trying to cushion their fall and not land on top of them. Hardi pulled little Charlotte down and crawled under a wagon as another bang sounded. Splinters rained down on them.
Mademoiselle Hélène babbled something about candles and Jean-Louis nodded. She must have left a candle lit.
Jean-Louis shouted, and soldiers scrambled between the neighboring tents. One man called out. Jean-Louis strode over to see: three muskets—rifled muskets for greater accuracy—with smoking barrels, their matches still smoldering, in a heap behind a nearby tent.
Fourbier ran up. “Monsieur le Colonel, perhaps it was a Franc-Comtois, seeking to assassinate you?”
“Why me, Fourbier? They would plot to kill Condé, not me. And if they were after me, they would have lit my tent on fire, not Mademoiselle Hélène’s.” The immediate threat seemed to have dissipated, but his heart still pounded. They scanned the area, jerking at every noise.
Fourbier stared at the rifles, barely masking his shock. He cleared his throat. “Do you think, Monsieur, they were aiming at—”
The two of them stood in silence. Jean-Louis took a deep breath, thinking how close someone had come to killing his daughter and everyone around her. Tent fires were notoriously hard to contain. Even with rifled muskets, shots went wild, especially in the dark.
“Find out if anyone was shot.” Jean-Louis swallowed hard. “Send for my carriage and horses. Help me with a clean shirt and coat, and I will speak to Condé immediately. We leave as soon as I have permission.”
“Oui, Monsieur.” Fourbier trotted off, pulling off his nightcap and brushing at his hair with his free hand.
Jean-Louis scrubbed at his scalp and wondered if his wig and hat had survived, then looked thoughtfully at the smoldering heap of Mademoiselle Hélène’s belongings. He shivered in the cold night air. When he strode back to the wagon where the woman and two girls still huddled, Ondine’s sobs were fading to sniffles and whimpers.
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