The gardens are the best kept part of the Tuileries, and from walking in them, one would hardly know that the palace hasn’t been the primary royal residence for years. I let go of Léon’s hand to rush toward my parents once they come into sight. I’m always happy to see them again after being at Versailles for a week, but this time the relief is strong and their smiles comfort me.
“I hope you weren’t too worried,” I tell them.
Maman shakes her head. “Impossible not to be. But I’m glad you are here, and safe.” She hugs me, and she smells like lavender, just like always.
I tell them about the storming of Versailles, leaving nothing out, though I don’t like the way my father’s jaw tightens when I talk about being shoved into the crowd and seeing the heads on pikes. My mother’s face looks pinched.
“Those poor men,” she says. “The mob forced some hairdressers at Sèvres to frizzle and powder their hair to make them look like aristocrats.” She shakes her head solemnly. “So disrespectful.”
“I met one of the guards, briefly,” I tell her. “He was very brave. He deserved better.”
“I hope the king will provide some sort of assistance to the man’s family,” says Papa.
Léon seems surprised by the destruction of the queen’s bedchamber. “Thank God you weren’t there. I’m surprised they got that far into the palace, but I did hear that someone saw the Duc d’Orleans disguised in an unassuming gray coat, leading them toward the queen’s rooms.”
I blink in surprise. It’s the first I’ve heard of that rumor, and it seems impossible. I don’t think it’s true, but that day and night was so chaotic, I wonder if I’ll ever know the full extent of events.
“I think it’s just as well the court is located at Tuileries now,” says Papa. “You’ll be closer to home. Paris is growing increasingly volatile—I like knowing you’ll be able to slip away and come to us if you need to.” His brow creases, wrinkling his heavy eyebrows with concern. “Perhaps you ought to leave your post.”
For a moment the idea tempts me. “No,” I say, thinking it over. I enjoy my work overall, and the queen is fascinating. Even if I weren’t spying for my uncle, I’d be curious about her. I like being at court, too, at the center of everything. I’m not ready to give up the prestige of it. “Not yet. Things are bound to be better now that the king is in Paris, not isolated at Versailles. If something else happens, I’ll leave then. I promise.” The last phrase comes out in a questioning tone as I look to my parents for approval.
Papa sighs. “All right, Giselle. But please be careful.”
“I can meet you here when your days off start,” offers Léon. “I’ll escort you home. It might not be safe to walk alone.”
My parents nod in agreement, and I like the idea too.
* * *
On my last day at Tuileries before my days off commence, the queen calls me to her side after her bath. She sits upright in the bed, pillows and heavy blankets heaped all around her. In spite of this, her knuckles look faintly purple, as if she caught a chill immediately after exiting the tub of hot water.
“I would like your assistance in choosing my outfit today, Giselle,” she says.
I gape at her in shock. “Me, Your Majesty?” It’s not a clever response, but it springs to my lips before I can think of a better one.
“Yes. I will wear something tricolor. Madame Campan tells me you have an understanding of the fashion for these colors and an eye for detail.”
“Madame Campan is very kind to say so.”
“She also never gives unwarranted praise.” Marie Antoinette nods toward the book of dress samples lying on the table not far from the bed. “Fetch it here.” I bring it back, and she hands me a pincushion. “Choose something elegant and undeniably tricolor.”
I’ve dreamed of holding the book of dress samples and poring over it in detail. Now that I finally have the chance, the pressure of the task overwhelms most of the pleasure. I forget to admire the variety of patterns and materials, and flip through briskly, searching for suitable colors. Marie Antoinette watches me closely, and though it makes me nervous, I’m determined to please her. Fortunately, I know which dresses of the book are here and which were left at Versailles, since I helped unpack.
In the end, I select a blue-and-white-striped gown, and a plain white bonnet and fichu. “Geneviève and I will sew red ribbon on the edges of the bonnet and fichu,” I say. “It will pull the colors together nicely.” I hesitate and force my expression to stay neutral. “Will you wear jewels, Your Majesty?”
She shakes her head immediately, eyes flashing. “No. They are here, but keep them locked away. I will dress more simply while we are at Tuileries.” Her voice rings with decision, but when her gaze flicks to the window overlooking the gardens, I think she believes they will return to Versailles soon.
“These are good choices, Giselle,” the queen tells me, although she doesn’t smile. I suppose she hates to wear the revolutionary colors, even though she knows it is the wise choice. I can’t really blame her.
* * *
In the weeks to follow, she insists I accompany Madame Campan when the orders to Rose Bertin and Madame Éloffe are put in. I do not presume to expect I would have final say over the decisions, and keep quiet most of the time, but Madame Campan sometimes asks for my opinion on colors. In spite of her offhand tone, I know she never asks unless she finds herself hesitating over the revolutionary choices. The queen orders only a few formal gowns from Rose Bertin, needed since the formal ceremonies of Versailles have since been adopted at Tuileries, but spends most of her reduced budget on silken tricolor cockades and ribbons, and orders for Madame Éloffe to make over old blue, white, and rose-colored gowns to be more revolution appropriate. She begins dressing her hair more simply, and wears modest bonnets and fichus in the fashionable tricolors for her daily walks in the sculpted Tuileries gardens.
Part of me thrills every time the queen or Madame Campan asks my advice, but it also gives me a pang of sorrow whenever I see the faint, mostly concealed resentment felt by the queen for the limited and personally offensive choices, or the worry that tightens the lines around Madame Campan’s eyes.
My uncle will be pleased, at least, knowing that I have entered the queen’s inner circle at last. The idea doesn’t excite me as much as it once would have. For all of his expertise with espionage, it has crossed my mind that perhaps he should have predicted the march on Versailles or, if not something so specific, at least foreseen a large-scale riot. Since he did not, I sometimes wonder what the point of spying is at all.
Chapter Eleven
JANUARY 1790
In the new year, three months after the move to the Tuileries, my uncle focuses intently on political intrigue and international affairs, specifically where the queen is concerned.
“The unrest in Paris—all of France—is capturing attention throughout Europe,” he says, not for the first time. “Of course, the queen’s Austrian relatives will have a particular interest. She must correspond with them frequently. Doubtlessly, she tells them everything, and expects them to extricate her from this wretched mess.” Like nearly everyone else, he seems to believe that Marie Antoinette cherishes greater loyalty for her native country and siblings than she does for her French husband and children.
I am not so sure. “She writes a lot of correspondence lately,” I say cautiously. “More than previously.” Some of it is secret, but I don’t say this. I only suspect because of the furtive way she hunches over the paper, sometimes splattering tiny droplets of ink onto the table in her haste to scrawl the sentences. Once the letter is completed and folded closed, she regains her customary straight-backed composure and stamps the wax with efficient vigor. If I hadn’t been working as a tirewoman for months, becoming familiar with nearly every aspect of her daily routine, I probably wouldn’t have perceived the minute differences in her actions.
“Correspondence to foreign powers?” My uncle’s eyes narrow.
I’ve ne
ver managed to read any of the letters. Truthfully, I’ve hardly tried. While I have gained a greater measure of trust from the queen, she also notices me more than before. “I know she corresponds with Leopold of Austria, but that’s hardly a surprise. He’s her brother.”
Uncle Pierre’s mouth twists. “I don’t believe they were ever close. I never heard of it. She used to be very close to her late mother, who advised her on multitudes of things, but never her brother.”
“Lots of the letters are for people in Paris.” Not knowing how to confirm nor contradict his assertion about the queen’s family, I shift the subject. “They get sorted into a different pile for delivery.”
His head comes up like a hound on the scent, eyes glinting with interest. “Do they?”
“The same servant fetches them from her desk all at once when she commands it, but before that happens, I’ve noticed she keeps them differently. The local ones are stacked diagonal to the inkwell, with the foreign ones overlapping but straight to the back of the desk.”
“Good work, Giselle, my dear girl. Not many would notice a nervous habit like that. You’re very clever.” His smile rounds his cheeks briefly before he leans back in his chair again, thinking. “So most are for Paris? Well, it makes sense that she would write to as many royalists as she can. She needs their support.”
“And their comfort.”
His brows arch, and I’m surprised he neglected to think of this angle, given his vast experience for examining and interpreting every action, monitoring every detail for the Secret du Roi.
“She was nearly killed last time she was at Versailles, people scorn her all through the city, and more and more often she hears that her role, which she was raised for from birth, is wrong and disastrous for society. She fears for the future of France, and her own life, and it’s natural that she seeks reassurance and advice from friends.”
My uncle nods sadly. Pressing his fingertips together, he leans forward, shaking his head slightly. “She always was charming, when she wanted to be. Is she bringing you under her spell now too? I suppose it isn’t unexpected now that you’ve received a promotion of sorts.”
This isn’t at all the response I anticipated upon seeing his pitying reaction. At first I’d thought he understood the angle of sympathy I attempted to present, but now understanding that patronizing tone is directed entirely at me stings. Resentment makes my spine stiff, and I stare down my nose at him. My brows probably reach my hairline. “Not at all, and I don’t appreciate the accusation, Uncle. I’ve always been careful to remain unbiased and to view everything from objective angles, as you directed me to. When I have a personal opinion on an incident I report to you, I’m careful not to let it color my words, just as if this really were the Secret du Roi—even though it is not. You missed this angle, because you dislike her so much that you imagine her not to be human, and because you obsess so much over ulterior motives that sometimes you overlook the simplest ones.”
His eyelids twitch, and his frown lines deepen with displeasure while his cheeks redden. I brace myself for a reprimand but match his stare. I’m not afraid of him. My uncle might fancy himself the head of our family, but I’ve survived the storming of Versailles and I will not be treated like a child. Besides, while perhaps a bit harshly stated, my point has a ring of truth. He taught me to observe, and I see him now too.
“I am sorry to offend you, Giselle. I didn’t mean you’re failing in your task. Such empathy is a credit to anyone, and if I forgot it, it’s only because such depth was unfortunately a lacking feature of the Secret du Roi.”
I rise, smoothing my skirt so it falls in a haughty line down to my feet. “The queen isn’t the sort to dissemble and pretend. She’s accustomed to being independent, frank, and headstrong. Born into royalty, she never had to curb those aspects of her personality.”
“I know,” he says, fingers flicking impatiently. “I knew her when she was a young dauphine, just come to court. Sit down, Giselle. I said I’m sorry.”
“In the most noncommittal way possible. You apologized for offending me, not for saying something offensive. There is a difference. Besides, I have to be home for lunch. My father will be here any moment. He’s walking me home. I don’t walk anywhere in Paris alone these days.”
Uncle Pierre sees me to the door. “Is this the end of our spy work, then, Giselle? Are you ready to give up the family legacy?”
I sweep past him without answering, but before I close the door, I twist my head over my shoulder. Standing in the doorway, he looks slighter than usual, his hair glistening with gray.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Perhaps.”
“Please don’t give it up so quickly. I know you enjoy the intellectual side of it, gathering observations and putting them together into conclusions. It’s a puzzle only the clever can do. You’d miss it.”
“I do enjoy it. But I think you would miss it more.”
The silence expands for a long moment. “Indeed I would,” he says heavily.
“I’m glad you can admit it. Perhaps I’ll continue, then.”
Seeing my father approaching along the street, I proceed down the steps. I don’t look back, but I can practically feel my uncle’s satisfaction as he lingers before closing the door. It pleases me, because if he cares about his spying on the queen during all this political upheaval, he needs me, and I hope I’ve shown him that I won’t be taken for granted.
My uncle doesn’t contact me for weeks, and although I see him a couple of times at family dinners, we don’t speak of spy work. We hardly converse at all. He seems weary and tense, excusing himself early on several occasions, withdrawing to his study or hastening his family home in their carriage. I’m curious about what he could be working on that takes up so much of his time, hoping he has finally begun writing another play, as we discussed so long ago. Papa scoffs at the idea when I mention it in passing.
“I think Pierre prefers politics over plays, and there are plenty of those to go around at the moment.”
At last, in late February, I arrange our next meeting myself, bringing a carefully prepared list of the most notable items to discuss. The winter has been quiet, so these are small enough, but I don’t mind. The events of October were sufficiently dramatic to last a long time. As well, Léon and I spend as much of our spare time together as we can, and this keeps me busy. Sometimes we walk around Paris or in the Jardins des Tuileries. On rainy days, we slip into the library, which is usually empty and neglected, and the books receive no attention from us, either. He often calls for me at home, too, and my parents seem to approve of him. Maman spoils him, sending him home with extra food like biscuits and apples. Though he is a grown man, I think she pities him for having to live so far away from his own family. After one of his visits on a drizzly March evening, Papa calls me into his study and gently enquires about the depth of my regard for Léon.
“I see the softness in his eyes when he looks at you, which is almost constantly.” Papa smiles, teasing and bittersweet at the same time. “You’re all grown up now, Giselle, and maybe you will be married soon. If Léon asks for my permission to wed you, shall I give it?”
My cheeks tingle with the self-conscious blush that I cannot suppress, but excitement sings through me. “Yes. I love him, Papa.”
“I know he loves you too. Has he told you yet?”
“No, not yet. Not in words.”
“It’s a life-changing thrill, hearing it from someone who you have requited feelings for.” Papa stares into the fireplace, eyes glazing with memory. “I still remember when Charlotte said those magical words back to me.”
“Did you court Maman with poetry?” I ask lightly. Even now, his index fingertip bears a blue ink splotch.
He smiles wryly. “Poetry and roses every day for two months.” He rises from his chair, his grin widening. “It’s a good thing we settled things between us then, because I was running out of poems. She confided afterward she knew she would marry me after one month, but she didn’
t want the poems to cease.”
I giggle. “Perhaps it’s just as well that Léon doesn’t write poetry, for his sake.”
“Ah well, he’s practical. Not like your romantic fool of a father.” His dark brows draw together in cheerful self-deprecation. “Léon will take good care of you, I think, not that you need someone to coddle you.”
I embrace my father. He smells like parchment and smoke from the fireplace. He knows me so well, even when he seems to be immersed in his books for weeks at a time, and I love him dearly.
Just as I turn to leave the study, he puts his hand on my arm to pause me. “One more thing, Giselle—if you are tired of spying for Pierre, you only have to tell me or your mother. I think she would be secretly relieved if you were to stop. She worries, now that the court atmosphere is so volatile.”
“I’m very careful. It isn’t dangerous—at least, no more dangerous than simply being at court is, and it’s been much better since the king and queen moved to the Tuileries and have been making an effort to support the revolution.”
“I can’t stop you, and I wouldn’t anyway. I trust your judgment, Giselle. But I wouldn’t be a proper father if I didn’t remind you to continue to be careful.”
“I will,” I promise solemnly.
“Not just at court,” he adds. “Pierre can be a bit of a bully at times. He thinks of himself first, always. Don’t let him get to you.”
“We did argue,” I admit. “It was my fault as much as his. I think we have come to a better understanding now. He knows I won’t be pushed around.”
Papa gives me a small, strange smile. It’s proud and also cold, somehow. “Good. Make sure he never forgets it, and trust yourself first.”
“I shall.” His seriousness seems almost excessive, but I suppose he worries now that the revolution makes each day unpredictable. I do too, even while I enjoy the excitement of it.
As the snow melts and the trickling icy paths give way to mud and then sun-warmed grass, time flies in a blur for me. My head and heart are both full, and I am content.
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