“You’ll definitely have to feed tonight,” he told himself. It was luck that he’d just fed the previous night, or he might have done himself serious harm.

Slow and steady, the mob rolled along the streets, the anger and the passion breaking like waves on the bodies, packed like sardines in such close and cramped quarters. The stench was terrible, and the heat was unendurable, but from the dry throats came one brassy cry.

However, exhaustion meant that Chauvelin wasn’t exactly looking where his feet where going, and he was distracted enough not to notice all of the details of his surroundings. With a short cry, he smacked straight into another person, and the crowd rolled on past like a tidal wave, pressing them up against the brick wall of the building. Sandwiched together rather uncomfortably, neither looked at each other, and shifted so that they came loose and stepped back into the darker, cooler emptiness of an alleyway.

And that’s when he met her.

Little more than a child, especially compared to his age of one hundred years, her strawberry blonde hair had mostly come free of it’s bindings, and she was pressing a limp lock behind her ear. Her face – already a little flushed from the heat – was a deep crimson as she realized she’d been packed next to a man that looked about fourteen years her senior, and was decidedly not unattractive. She placed one delicate hand against the wall to steady herself – poor little thing was probably close to fainting with the heat – and Chauvelin noticed she was favoring one leg slightly. Had he hurt her? He hadn’t meant to.

If she noticed that he was attractive, he’d noted that she was as well.

“Ah….” She began a little nervously, not wanting to just rush back into the crowd. Apparently she couldn’t, for she tested a little weight on her ankle, and winced.

“I’m very sorry,” began Chauvelin, taking a hesitant step closer to the girl. “I didn’t mean to, I…..I wasn’t paying attention, and….” Well? What to say? “Are you hurt?” he finally managed, and the girl tried to shake her head no, taking a step to prove her point. This only succeeded in being disastrous, as she fell foreword, and Chauvelin was only just able to catch her.

The girl’s face scrunched slightly at the momentary pain and she pulled away, resettling herself against the wall. She was blushing even more fiercely now. “I, uh, guess I twisted my ankle a little during our…ah, collision.”

Chauvelin grinned nervously. “Yes, I’m terrible sorry about that. It’s entirely my fault.”

“No,” she disagreed, “I shouldn’t have stopped walking.”

Silence for a moment.

“I suspect,” he finally responded, “we both shouldn’t try and worm our way back in. You least of all.”

“I’m fine!” she bristled, trying to assert the fact that she actually was a full grown woman. She stood straight – tall, but still not as tall as he was – and began to take another step, before falling back against the bricks. “Just…well, a little not fine.”

Chauvelin took another hesitant step in her direction. “Is it serious? Can I help you home?”

“It’s a sprain at worst, monsieur. I hardly need an escort.”

“Yes, but with the city as riled as it is, and-”

“I don’t live far.”

“Of course.”

Silence.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he repeated.

And she smiled – a rather nice smile, too. “There’s nothing to be sorry about, Monsieur….” She let the question hang, waiting for him to supply the name.

“Chauvelin. Armand Chauvelin,” he quickly provided.

The smile on her face widened. “That’s my brother’s name as well.”

“Then I certainly hope you won’t forget it.”

“I intend not to.”

“And you, mademoiselle? What’s your name?”

“Marguerite St. Just.” She extended her free hand, and Chauvelin gave it a brief kiss.

“A pleasure.”

“The pleasure’s all mine.”

“I sincerely doubt that. Not with a sprained ankle that I happened to have helped cause.”

She laughed. “It’s nothing.”

“Then you don’t need me to see you home?”

“Hardly.”

“Then au revoir, Mademoiselle St. Just.”

“Au revoir, Monsieur Chauvelin.”

They smiled, nodded, and turned in opposite directions, the girl limping slightly, and man stooping slightly. And that was that.

“Chief Agent of the Committee of Public Safety, mon Dieu!”

“Yes, well,” agreed Chauvelin, “they needed the best they could find.”

“So why on earth did they choose you?”

To celebrate Chauvelin’s newly appointed position in the new Republic, Bouquet, Jean Claude, and Jacqueline had come up to Paris. Dinner and the theater was the plan, using Monsieur Meaux’s favorite box, and it had been a splendid evening. Even if Bouquet wasn’t exactly a supporter of the Republic, he really didn’t care one way or another. It was a human game, and the only one of the four it interested was Chauvelin. In fact, it interested him passionately. With religious fervor he cried “Long live the Republic,” and proudly displayed the tri-color sash he wore as a chief agent.

It was during the beginning of the theatrical performance that something very unexpected happened to Chauvelin, and he paid little to no attention to whatever happened the rest of the evening. He’d leaned foreword far in his seat, and Jacqueline could hear him whisper “Mon Dieu, but it is a small world!” before he fell back into the chair and remained in silent, stunned thought.

After the performance, Jacqueline practically had to shout in his ear to awaken him from his stupor, but he livened up once he saw his guests off for the night at the door of the theater.

“Be sure to take care of yourself,” begged Bouquet, and Jean Claude had added “Congratulations again, Armand,” before they both walked off to talk for a moment. Jacqueline hung back with Chauvelin for a moment, who barely even noticed her.

“Where are you?”

“I don’t really know,” he answered, trying to organize his thoughts.

“Well, you’re certainly not with me, if that’s any help.” She smiled, and he smiled faintly too, but she still did not have his full and undivided attention. “Really, Armand, I’ve known you your whole life. I’m the one that raised you from your death bed when you were born. I was your lover for two years. I can tell when a shaft has struck your soul.”

“Is that what it is?” he murmured.

“Oh, most certainly,” she playfully teased, taking his arm. “Now, speaking as your dearest friend, and as your fellow vampire, I must beg you to walk with a careful tread. You’re in dangerous territory.”

“How so?” he said, coming more to himself.

“I can’t tell you. If you haven’t learned by now, you never will,” she purred. “Just try and keep your head.” Patting his arm, she kissed his cheek. “Do take care,” and rushed back to her waiting brother.

Six months? At least. A year? Maybe….but, no, not that long. Six months sounded right, but he couldn’t actually be sure. But it wasn’t a year. He would have felt a year slip by. Or he liked to think that he would.

The theatre was practically deserted. The actors were tired and had gone home. So had the crew. Surely the girl would be exhausted, and she’d-

He pushed the thought from his mind as he asked around for her dressing room door. Proper directions in mind, he slid silently into the hall, and decided to wait for…ten minutes. It was ample to see if she was there.

Why did he want to see her? He didn’t really know. It didn’t really matter. She was just a human. And he was just a vampire. They didn’t mix well, he knew that, he understood that. But still, it couldn’t hurt, just once, to involve himself a little with a mortal girl. He’d had them as lovers, but it was temporary. He felt in a mood to conquest, as a vampire often is, and with his target in sight, he refused to budge from the selected path.

His patience was actually well rewarded, for out of the door stepped the same girl as before, looking a little weary, changed from her costume into civilian clothes.

“It’s a small world, mademoiselle.”

The fetching young creature wheeled, blue eyes wide. She relaxed upon seeing Chauvelin, but the look of puzzlement remained.

“Pardon moi, but have we met before?” she asked, her head tilted slightly to one side.

He smiled, and stepped a little more into the light. “You could say I, ah, ran into your on the day the Bastille was stormed.”

Her eyes lit up and a smile brightened her face. She startled him slightly by rushing foreword and clenching his hand in happy surprise. “Why, it’s you! Armand Chauvelin, I haven’t forgotten, you see? I promised I wouldn’t.”

Her infectious smile spread to him as well, and he nodded, kissing the delicate hand. “I didn’t know you were an actress, Citoyenne St. Just.”

“I didn’t know you were a patron of the art, Citoyen Chauvelin.”

“Well, now we both have learned something we didn’t know before. And I’m yearning for details. I could walk you home.”

“You’re quite insistent on finding my place of residence, aren’t you?”

“Well, I merely can’t have you slip away for another…Dieu, how long has it been?”

She shook her head. “I’m too tired to think of it. Eight months at least, I would imagine.”

He canted his head to the side. “Really? Eight months?” It felt like eight days – at least to a vampire. “Then, citoyenne, I must insist that you allow me to walk with you.”

“I could hardly refuse you,” she laughed, taking his arm and leading him back down the hall way.

“Then I am most eternally grateful.”

“The pleasure’s all mine.”

“That I doubt.” Chauvelin was in a terribly wonderful mood.

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