Eleonore Duplay met Maximilien Robespierre when she was twenty-two years old. It had been a hot day and later there were gunshots and shouting in the street. She’d stayed up with her mother, waiting for her father to come home. If he hadn’t come home, she’d been preparing to go out to find him, no matter the condition. However he’d hurried into the yard, a stranger trailing behind him. Maurice Duplay shut the gate behind him and then towards the house.
“Mama, the kettle,” Eleonore said just as father reached the door. Her mother moved the kettle off the fire to start on making coffee.
“I own several apartments, monsieur. You can stay here for tonight, the top room is vacant.”
“Ah, merci.”
The door opened. Her father framed is wood, the stranger behind him, bedraggled by a long day. Eleonore lit another candle to see more clearly. The light caught pale green eyes and a pale freckled face. Maurice led him further into the house, closer to his wife and daughter.
“My eldest daughter Eleonore, and my wife Francoise. Dearest, please meet Monsieur Robespierre.”
Both women dropped a shallow curtsy and Francoise tutted. “Oh you poor man. I have coffee. Come sit,” she ordered. Robespierre muttered a thank you. Eleonore studied him with an artists eye. His profile flattened, make his face look shallow and his cheekbones look high. Maurice met her gaze and they stepped aside.
“He was trapped at the club, during the shooting. I helped him out. He can stay for the night,” he told her. “Can you go see to the room?”
“Yes papa,” she said and left, glancing over her shoulder to the slumped form in front of the fire.
Stories, both long and short. 