by Kate Quinn
“Let’s visit the refreshments table and then I’m afraid I must return to my guests as well. Please stay as long as you like.”
“Thank you.” My stomach rumbled as we approached a table loaded with trays. “Just one more thing,” I said. “Your gentleman loves you. He told me so himself. He hopes you share his feelings.”
Her cheeks flushed and her eyes shone with joy. “You cannot know how happy this makes me. Thank you, mademoiselle. Now I must go.” But rather than join the fete, she darted through a door and closed it swiftly behind her. No doubt, to read her letter.
I glanced at the rather stiff but well-dressed servant who stood guard at the refreshments table. He eyed me, disdain rumpling his brow.
I grinned and said, “Don’t worry. I won’t bite you.”
His face reddened, and he cleared his throat. “Pardonnez-moi. I did not mean to—”
“Never mind.” I waved my hand to shoo him.
His face tightened. “Very good, mademoiselle.”
My mouth watered at the sight of row after row of dainty foods: disks of vegetables topped with mousse sprinkled with herbs, wedges of bread featuring flowers of golden butter, and a layered pastry stuffed with creamed spinach and chèvre. I couldn’t believe they’d managed to find flour in the city.
I reached for a pastry.
“We use tongs to pick up the canapés.” The servant sniffed.
“Is that what these are called?” I forced an innocent expression, picked up the tongs, and scooped five pieces onto a plate, then proceeded to the next tray, selecting the canapé with orange-colored mousse first, and three more of the yellow.
“You don’t have to hoard them.” His tone dripped with disgust. “You can fill your plate as many times as you like.”
“Why don’t you make yourself useful and fetch me a brandy,” I said through a mouthful.
He winced at the prospect of following my directive but headed to the bar.
I popped two canapés in my mouth at once and groaned at their exquisite taste before helping myself to another. I reached for a serviette, scooped another heap of canapés into it, and stuffed the package swiftly into my handbag for later. Colorful pastries I would later learn were called macarons joined the canapés, for who knew when I’d next see so much food.
The servant returned holding a large glass brimming with amber liquid. “Given your appetite, I trust this will suffice.”
I peered at the full glass. “Are you trying to have your way with me, monsieur?”
“I never! Good evening to you!” He huffed and darted away to commence his rounds at the tables.
I threw my head back and laughed deeply. When tears streamed from the corners of my eyes, I wiped them with my sleeve. Before setting down the ridiculous tumbler of brandy, I took two big gulps. It burned going down and within seconds, I felt its blessed warming presence in my blood. I would take a turn about the room before leaving—Why not? I thought. The night had been full of surprises.
I walked around the tables, catching another round of ugly stares until a conversation floated toward me and I stopped.
A gentleman laid a stack of pamphlets in the center of the table. “Madame Roland is the woman I was telling you about. She writes articles with her husband for the Patriote Français in Lyon. My sister has been sending these to me. What nonsense, this talk of patriots.” Several of the gamblers plucked them from the table. “But it is better to know what we are up against, I say.”
“I think it’s a waste of time,” said a man in a fancy uniform. “The king will never publish the Declaration because he isn’t going to sign away his powers. The whole idea is absurd. Imagine a life without nobility.” The man shuddered, eliciting a laugh from those at the table with him. “A ludicrous notion.”
I stared at him in surprise, recognizing him as Lieutenant Colonel François de Sainte-Amaranthe of the king’s guard. He was also Émilie’s papa—or at least the man forced by law to claim her. He hadn’t shown me the kindness his wife and daughter had, and now this . . . this show of superiority and mocking, turned my stomach. So despite his common birth, he’d remain a loyal dog, barking and biting the people for his noble masters. Heat rose to my cheeks.
“A life without nobility, indeed,” I interrupted. “Imagine what it would be like to not have servants—actual people, same as you and me—waiting on your every whim.” I turned to the officer’s aristocratic friends. “Why, you’d have to clean your own clothes, work for pitiful wages, and go hungry most days like the rest of us. Struggle to pay your landlord. How dreadful. I can’t imagine it.”
The table fell silent.
My eyes roved from one rouged face to the next, settling on one of the aristocratic guests. He wore so much powder his skin looked ghostly and his lips were like two bloody slashes. I’d like to give him a bloodied lip for real. I waved my arm in passion. “Imagine having more to do than gambling away your boredom and swilling spirits until you’re senseless. Imagine having passion for a cause greater than yourself. I’m certain you cannot.”
“We want what is best for la belle France, mademoiselle. That is all,” one of the men said.
Another man smirked.
Fury clouded my vision and I gripped my free hand into a fist. “You want what is best for you alone. And perhaps your whores.”
The ladies at the table gasped.
Saint-Amaranthe pushed up from his chair. “I think your visit here is finished.”
So it was. I dashed from the room, choking on my anger, and more furious still that I felt foolish beneath their scornful gazes.
* * *
Paris, October 2, 1789
Nearly three months after the Bastille fell, still our lot as commoners had not improved, and we struggled to survive. I’d had a row with a gentleman in the tavern the night before to make him see—really see—what must be done for our liberty. But I was just a girl, and I’d lost. I had the bruised cheek to show for it. I was beginning to think the men who led our cause did so through strength of might but lacked strength of mind.
Sighing, I dropped a coin in the paperboy’s hand and tucked a copy of L’Ami du Peuple under my arm. I’d searched for the latest edition of Jean-Paul Marat’s newspaper all morning; everyone at the Palais-Royal could speak of nothing else. Every patriot I knew read his columns, if not for news, to fuel their ire.
Eager to read, I didn’t bother to sit and delved in immediately. All the rumors about a foreign conspiracy against our revolution were true, it seemed. The king had summoned the Royal Flanders to Versailles to reinforce his royal guard—against us, his own people. And in celebration, the queen had thrown a lavish party. Drunken revelry, music, cards, and even an orgy, some said, had entertained the court.
Several of the soldiers at the fete had pitched their cockades to the floor and trampled them, refuting the nation and swearing their allegiance to the House of Bourbon.
I gasped and reread the text. Didn’t those fools know what they’d done? They had declared war on the patriots!
Marat called for a move. He argued the royal household and the National Assembly should move to the Tuileries Palace in Paris, where they could no longer turn a blind eye to the needs of their people. He demanded the foreign armies be expelled and replaced by Lafayette’s National Guard.
But even as progressive as Marat was, newspaper columns weren’t going to make that happen.
Only we, the people, could.
I stormed back to my cart, journal in hand.
“There you are.” Jeanne snatched the paper from me before I could get out a word. As she read, her already-large eyes bugged from her head until she resembled a dead fish. “What are we going to do?”
“We have to march. There’s no other way to get the king’s attention.” My mind raced with the dangers of such a move. If we marched to the palace, would the king send the royal guard to slaughter us like lambs? Versailles was a royal city, after all. It was very likely. There was also the quest
ion of who should march. Should we leave such a bold move to the men again? I knew the answer to that already. They would see to their own rights, perhaps, but not ours, not those of the women, and we’d not taste the liberty we now held so dear.
I clenched my teeth, stalking to and fro, unsettled and nervous like a tiger in a cage.
Jeanne squeezed my forearm and pointed to an entryway of the arcade. “Look!”
Citizens poured into the garden from every direction, rushing toward the center of the courtyard, waving their own copies of Marat’s paper.
“It’s another speech,” I said, spotting the familiar dark head of Maillard. He’d been instrumental to the fall of the Bastille and was now captain of the new Volunteers of the Bastille that he’d founded.
Jeanne chewed her lip nervously. “If things get unruly, I’m leaving.”
If things became unruly, what would I do?
I looked for Maillard again, but he appeared to be moving through the crowd toward the arcade of shops. I frowned as a short, round woman climbed the bench where he usually spoke. I knew this woman; she was the baker’s wife whose shop had been looted and burned after the bread riots at the docks. The crowd fell silent and she began what looked to be an impassioned speech. Every few minutes, she thrust her arm into the air and her audience responded with a mixture of shouts and heckling. Something sinister tinged the air.
I swore aloud, followed by a string of obscenities foul enough to curdle milk. “If we don’t want a riot, someone had better get that wench down. Jeanne, can you watch—”
My friend dismissed me with a wave.
I threaded through the audience, a sharp eye on the center of the courtyard.
“My shop was burned to the ground because of people like you!” The woman’s words became clearer as I approached. “You don’t attack the one who gives you bread, you dolts!” The crowd shouted obscenities, but she went on. “You’ve made the king angry, brought on the royal guard. Now he doesn’t trust his people. Know your place, you idiots, or you’ll get us all killed.”
I rolled my eyes. They came to listen to this?
“To hell with the aristocracy!” a man shouted, displaying a row of black teeth.
“To hell with you!” she shouted back. “You don’t burn down the shop that feeds you!”
The crowd descended into a mass of chaotic jeering. Someone tossed a dummy made of straw dressed in Bourbon blue-and-white livery, and the crowd jostled it overhead. Many began to shove each other.
Breath hitching, I elbowed my way through to the bench and reached for the woman’s hand. “Madame, if I could say a word or two?”
“Who in hell are you?” The woman jerked her arm away. “I’m speaking now, and they’re listening for once.”
Listening? Right before they beat her senseless for her drivel.
I blew out an exasperated breath. “I’d give my left arm for a fresh loaf of your delicious bread, madame. I’m sorry the boulangerie burned, but you might be hurt if you don’t step down. This crowd is angry.”
The woman’s shrewd eyes took in my clothing, the brown waves that flowed from beneath my mobcap and down my back.
“Let me talk to them,” I persisted.
Rocks began to sail through the air. A large stone hit a man only four paces away. He took it in the back, gasped at the unexpected impact, and ducked for cover. Another smashed against a firewood cart. A third sliced the air, soaring toward the baker’s wife.
I threw my arm around her waist and pulled her to the ground. The stone flew past into a tree and shattered into several pieces.
The woman sat up, a bewildered expression on her face, and adjusted her cap. “They’re all yours.” She staggered to her feet and darted off.
I sprang onto the bench and stood, waving my hands over my head. I was probably the only person dumb enough to wave my hands like a flag, asking to be stoned. I put my fingers to my lips and blew, and a loud whistle pierced the air.
Most of the crowd stilled, but some continued to shout. I let loose another whistle so shrill those closest to me covered their ears.
“Écoutez, patriotes!” I shouted.
This time, they grew quiet, and all eyes focused on me. I noticed a few familiar faces; some vendors who were usuals at the Palais and some customers. Captain Maillard reappeared at the edge of the crowd, a thoughtful expression on his face, waiting to hear what I had to say. And what did I have to say exactly? I blew out a calming breath.
“It’s true, we’re hungry,” I began. “And we’re tired of looking as if we’ve been dragged behind a cart at day’s end.” Raucous laughter mingled with a few cheers. Now, I truly had their attention. “We want change. We want bread. We want no more unfair taxation!”
Cheering erupted. “No taxation! No taxation!” they cried.
A new sensation rushed through me like a river swollen with spring rain. Pride and purpose and passion. I could feel the crowd’s expectation and their anger, but most of all their hope. They felt the same pull I did—the pull toward irrevocable change. We would no longer accept our lot as the low, as the inconsequential, as the mud on the heel of society’s boot, and the significance of this realization held us in its grip.
“If we’re to have change,” I called out, “we must band together, not fight amongst ourselves. Together, we are a force. Separate, we are but peasants.” Energy shimmered around me and coursed through my limbs. “Together, we are a force who can fight for our liberté!” I thrust my fist into the air. “À liberté!”
The crowd roared.
“Liberté!”
The noise grew to deafening.
Somewhere in the mass, a chant began and quickly gained momentum.
In that moment, I spotted Pauline, who made her way toward me. She joined me on the bench, giving me a quick smile. I returned her smile with genuine gladness and made more room for us both to stand.
Pauline punched the air and joined in with the chant.
I stared out over the crowd, bustling with wives and vendors, bakers and chimney sweeps, and a smattering of aristocrats, fists jabbing the sky. I didn’t know what would happen, or how it would end. But we had all changed for good, and I would tuck away my fear and become a part of this great movement. Of that, I was certain.
* * *
Paris, October 5, 1789
In the days that followed, citizens emerged from every home, alleyway, and hidden nook in the city, filling the streets to bursting. They voiced their starvation and disillusionment, desperate to be heard. Yet our king still did nothing.
Anticipation knotted my stomach. I knew we must march. Today. It would be a show of unity the king could not ignore. And if it should be led by women, how deep his surprise. How eternal and poignant our message would be.
I met Pauline at the already-bustling Faubourg Saint-Antoine. Wives, sisters, and mothers of all ages streamed toward the knot of people in the middle of the street, and soon, it was difficult to hear without shouting. We wanted to feed our families, live without fear of being massacred by foreign armies, make our voices heard. Storm clouds gathered overhead and a stiff breeze rumpled our aprons and tossed our red bonnets. Vendors scurried away, and many ducked indoors to shutter their shops and homes, for we could all taste danger in the air.
I gazed at the masses, their jaws set, their eyes alight. My sisters-in-arms had something to say, something to fight for. It was a new day for the women of France, maybe even for the women of the world.
Pauline’s head inclined toward mine so I could hear her over the din. “This is incredible. There must be thousands of us.” Her eyes gleamed, and her cheeks blushed with high color.
“Incroyable!” I shouted, exhilaration spreading through me. I fingered the scarlet ribbon I’d fastened to my breast that morning. A gift from Maman on my birthday many years ago. I wore it when I needed to feel her beside me, hear her words of encouragement in my ear. This day, I would make her proud.
A drum resounded near the e
dge of the marketplace, and a hush fell over the crowd. One beat came, then another. A continuous thumping like the sound of boots on pavement.
Like a march.
Bodies flowed toward the sound of the drum until we crushed against one another.
Pauline squeezed my shoulder. “I’m committed until this is over. Are you?”
“I am, friend.” And it was true. I felt none of my earlier hesitation.
She smiled and raised her fist in the air. In time with the drum, she shouted, “Bread! Bread! Bread!”
We chanted until our voices became deafening.
The next instant, the mass of bodies shifted and we moved as one down the boulevard.
I gripped Pauline’s hand. “Let’s move to the front. We’re going to need weapons if we march all the way to Versailles.”
We forced our way forward, and as we came to the end of the street, Pauline and I directed the crowd toward the Hôtel de Ville, home of the city’s administration and a storage facility for weapons.
“First weapons, and then we march!” Pauline cried.
Everyone roared.
“March! March! March! March!” Citizens on all sides of me squabbled over our goals. Should we demand grain and return to Paris satisfied when our good king tended to his people’s needs, or should we rally until we seized the Austrian wench who spent our taxes on diamond necklaces while we starved? I clambered on top of a barrel to get the attention of the crowd and made a little joke. “If the queen won’t let us have bread, I’ll bring back her head!”
Of course, some really wanted the queen dead. Some just wanted the right to be heard and the right to defend themselves. Others wanted no king at all.
Pauline threw me a smile, but I didn’t miss the tinge of fear in her eyes. I suppose I felt it too; the fear of failure, of losing the only thing I truly owned: my life. But what good was a life that brought so much suffering? What good was a life without rights, and the hope of a better future?
We clogged the grand boulevards with our masses, halting the flow of carriages and horses and frightening many Parisians, who retreated, scrambling to hide inside. And they might as well hide. If they didn’t join us, they were against our cause.
