The Death of Paris

At the rectory Brother Alexandre wrote a question on parchment:

"How did that man die?"

"Poison, Brother," replied one cleric," his wife found him with another woman. That night she put poison in her husband's cup, and then her own. God rest his soul."

"Poison," thought Alexandre, "that is the answer! I will poison the very water they all must drink."

For five years more Alexandre Dormier studied, this time researching chemistry and mysticism. The vengeful priest set up a laboratory of sorts, experimenting with derivatives of belladonna and concoctions of deadly nightshade. At long last he distilled a poison so potent

that it would kill a grown man within one hour of consumption. It was strong enough that in large enough quantities even the litres of water in the Seine reservoir would not dilute it enough.

Finally, after ten years of exile and confinement, Alexandre Dormier made his move, setting out in secret on a stormy night.

*******

A cold, grey milieu hung over the Parisian nightmare. From the tower of the cathedral of Our Lady, and old phantom with a young body breathed murder. For ten years he had plotted his revenge on the city that had wronged him.

A single tear caressed his cheek as Dormier poured his poison into the Seine. His hand trembled, and he began to lose his resolve. He turned from the river, and saw a peasant man scurrying along with a lady of the evening. As she walked, her dark hair glowed in the moonlight, and Alexandre was reminded of Sophie. It was then that the poor girl stumbled, and earned a sharp blow to the cheek for her lack of grace. As she cried out, Alexandre's rage returned. Thoughts of what the villains had done to his dear Timon surged through his mind, and, offering up a silent prayer to his lover and some distant God, the former Viscomte finished the implementation of a plan that had begun on a tempestous night ten years before.

"Timon, I love you," he thought, "I only hope you can hear my thoughts."

With nothing to do but wait, Alexandre returned to his cell in Notre Dame. He fell into a troubled sleep, filled with the recurring nightmare Timon's murder. Every time Alexandre closed his eyes, he saw his lover's head rolling upon the ground. Even he found this a fitting revenge

for one who had ordered away so many lives by the guillotine, but his was a bitter, sleep-induced contemplation of irony, and thus Alexandre was almost glad when he was woken by the cries from the streets below. Opening his cell window he saw people falling on their knees and heard the wails of the dying. He smiled to himself, contemplating the irony that his vow of silence would not permit him to say any last rites.

It was then he noticed the imperious silence of the Cathedral. Throwing open the door of his cell, Alexandre witnessed the first effects of what he had done. The priests all lay dead, good men that had taken him in, now victims of the generosity that they had shown. This his only regret, he would have screamed save for his solemn vow; the only tie with his brethren

that he had left.

Swallowing his tenuous remorse Alexandre opened the heavy doors of the Cathedral and stepped outside, blinking at the sun he had barely seen in ten years. As he walked through the town, he saw nothing but corpses and heard nothing but the occasional moan of a dying peasant.

The actualization of ten years' work returned to him his feeling of vengeful elation, and the bitter cleric all but danced upon the bodies as he made his way through the city.

Mentally, Alexandre laughed. Dancing through the mortuary lined streets, he thanked God for this final revenge on gay Paree. Just as he was about to actually laugh, Alexandre heard a faint voice.

"Monsieur, " called a woman, crippled on the ground "Monsieur Viscomte."

He turned, and was faced with raven hair, emerald eyes, and a slender body. Ten years had drawn creases on the woman's face, but had not closed the gap between her teeth. Sophie lay on the street before him, dying.

"Speak to me Alexandre," she whispered "what have you done? What has happened here?"

He shook his head sadly, choosing to remain in silence.

"When all the people began to die, I knew that Alexandre Dormier had begun to have his revenge. Why do you not speak?" It was then that she took in the brown robe and the crucifix that hung around Dormier's slender neck. "I see. You took vows at Notre Dame." Her voice was weak.

Alexandre nodded, tears welling up in his azure eyes.

"So the clergy is blind to revenge," Sophie whispered, "or do they just not admit? What have we become? No matter," she coughed, "I will not be here to see." Blood began to trickle from her lips and on to her hair.

"I loved you my Lord d'Anjou, and I feel that it is I who has brought you and Paris to this." Sophie strained to speak, now, but it seemed that she had one final message for her Viscomte. Her eyes filled with tears of regret, but Sophie was too weak to cry. She looked up one last time, and Alexandre wiped the blood from her lips. Softly he kissed her.

"I go to make my apologizes to God and Timon," she said, noticing the increasing flow of blood from her throat. "I am killed, Monsieur."

With that her head fell back, and Alexandre's feminine angel gave up the ghost. He gently closed her eyes.

Anguished beyond mortality, Alexandre screamed her name, shattering the silence with his broken vow. He fell upon her sobbing, his hands touching her fine lips and her full breasts one last time. As he caressed her, memories came flooding back. Visions of passion flew through his mind, and at last he came to their final confrontation. With bittersweet memories come regret, and Alexandre sobbed uncontrollably as he remembered his threats to the girl.

"Forgive me!" he cried "I loved you both! Timon and Sophie, I loved you both.

Panicked and hopeless, Alexandre searched for something in which to end his pain. With no love, there is no living. He spied a shard of broken glass from the jar of a woman who would be needing it no longer. Seizing it, he dragged the glass across his wrists. Wincing in pain, he

dropped the shard and watched as the rivulets of blood spilled from beneeath his tender flesh..

"You were correct, my little Sophie. My blood stains the Rue d'Anjou. If only the cut were not stopped by my cowardly heart."

The sun was high over the French morning, and it seemed that all its rays focused on the girl's vanished beauty. Beside her, a fallen cup glinted in the light. Alexandre picked it up and saw that there was still water inside.

"To Timon," he said, raising the glass, "and Sophie; may we set things right in death that could never be done in life. To an eternity of my well-deserved damnation."

But even as he swallowed the poisoned water, Alexandre wept. A broken man, alone,

destroyed, and filled with unresolved emotion, Alexandre Dormier knew that he completely deserved that which had befallen him. His head began to swim, his heart began to race, and he fell atop Sophie, once more touching her intimately. He was about to die in the manner in which he lived, and thus all his memories eluded him as in one of his drunken stupors. French and English were gone, and only shreds of the archaic Latin that Alexandre had been exposed to for the last decade remained. For the last time on this earth, Alexandre Dormier, Viscomte d'Anjou kissed his Sophie's lips and his Timon's soul. He swore in his heart to be with them both before long. Before succumbing to Death, Alexandre raised his head and spoke his final words.

"Vai Victus!" Even as he struggled for breath, his death knell rang across the Rue. Once more he raised his head.

"Vai Victus!" Woe to the conquered.