DARCY DANCES THE CARMAGNOLE

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"Wickham and Lydia have run off together." Darcy's impressively firm mouth was set in a grim line. "I must go after them."

"Mr. Darcy, you are far too gallant and unselfish. My family is vulgar and unworthy, and frankly, my little sister deserves whatever she gets. I pray you, do not undertake this noble quest!" Miss Elizabeth Bennett gave her flattering words an air of dignity, simply by looking the rich and powerful Mr. Darcy in the eye.

"You are worthier than all your sisters," Mr. Darcy pronounced, with enormous rectitude. "I was wrong in my initial opinion of you, Elizabeth. You are a true aristocrat. Now I must make things right!

Darcy rode off to the nearest town, looking for the villainous army officer and the silly, thoughtless young girl. He searched in all the respectable inns, and inquired with all the good families. But finally he was forced to search the poor side of town.

It was horrible. Everywhere he went he saw filth, sin and disease. Girls of ten were selling themselves on the streets. Ragged scarecrows crawling with lice were begging on every corner. It was like a whole world he had never cared about in the slightest. Wickham's grinning face seemed everywhere. Darcy thought he saw the red-coated officer jeering at him from the next corner. Darcy ran and ran but could never catch up.

"There he is! Get him!" Suddenly a savage blow struck Mr. Darcy from behind. He fell to his hands and knees, tasting blood. A mob quickly gathered, taunting him. He called for the forces of stability in his well-ordered world. "Tenants! Servants! Soldiers! Militia!"

"Here we are!" Wickham kicked Darcy quite savagely in the ribs. Others joined in as the kicking got worse and worse.

"Ooh, don't stop kicking him, Mr. Wickham. Kick him again for me!" Lydia poured liquid from a wine bottle over Darcy's head.

"Elizabeth is worried about you," Darcy gasped. "She wants you to come home. She cares what happens to you, Lydia."

"The hell she does. The hell she's ever cared!" Lydia snarled like a rabid dog. "Intelligent Elizabeth, always looking out for herself. So principled, so prudent, so determined to rise above her station. If I were a corpse and rotting in the gutter she'd sing and dance."

"That's a lie!" Darcy wanted to say more about Elizabeth, but he couldn't. His eyes were stinging and his skin was on fire. The liquid in the bottle wasn't wine. It was something else entirely.

"Acid," Wickham explained. "We looted a chemist's shop an hour ago. You were blessed with money, family, and good looks, Darcy. But soon you won't be so good-looking anymore."

"Please," Darcy gasped. He was going blind. The acid was eating away his face. "Please, Wickham, stop. This is madness!"

"No, my friend. This is Revolution."

The mob roared, like lions in the arena. Someone wrapped a rope around Mr. Darcy's neck and a horrible song began. Darcy had heard rumors of this sort of thing. In France the common people had turned against their aristocrats, torturing them amidst laughter and music. But it couldn't happen here. Not in England!

"Dance, Mr. Darcy. Dance the Carmagnole!" Lydia cried.

The noose tightened and yanked Mr. Darcy into the air, where he kicked and jerked wildly. It looked as though he were dancing. The crowd laughed and laughed. Darcy died thinking of Elizabeth.