* * *
In mid-June, all aristocratic, hereditary titles are abolished. The king is to be called merely citizen, his title changing to Citoyen Louis Capet. The queen, I suppose, must be Citoyenne Capet. However, it’s an unspoken but ironclad law that this new development does not permeate either of their households, or indeed, life at Tuileries at all.
“The audacity of it,” says Madame Campan, fists clenched with shock. “If they are not king and queen, then why do they live in a palace and administer the government, I ask?”
There are no words to soothe her, so I make a sympathetic noise. It’s been a long while since Louis administered any government laws, and they live in the Tuileries by force, after being evicted from Versailles. On the day the title change happens, the queen walks about the garden for several hours, making the rounds over and over, until her cheeks have grown quite pink from the fresh air and sunshine. She looks healthier than she has in a long while, if one doesn’t notice the anguish in her eyes.
In the following weeks, it becomes exceedingly fashionable in revolutionary circles to adopt the use of citoyen in everyday conversation. Instead of being addressed as Mademoiselle Aubry, all of my acquaintances outside of Tuileries greet me as Citoyenne Aubry, and I must do the same. It feels strange. On one hand, the title invokes equality, but it feels impersonal, too. Geneviève likes it, and she and her fiancé, Étienne, address each other in this way all the time, laughing and grinning at each other.
“Come out with us, your next day off.” Geneviève smiles coaxingly. “I know Étienne and Léon would be fast friends, just as we are. They’d enjoy talking of politics together.”
“Léon likes Café du Foy. Perhaps we could go there?” I’m intrigued by the idea of visiting the coffeehouse, located in the garden of the Palais Royal. Though there are many cafés in the area, few have such a reputation for attracting idealists, revolutionaries, and political dissidents. The company is the draw for Léon, who could happily talk reform for hours. It’s a relatively new thing for women to be allowed into coffeehouses at all. Only a few years ago they were viewed as places for men—only—to network and share ideas. I’ve never been to a café.
“I’ve been there once.” Geneviève tosses her head, but her grin is more mischievous than lofty. “You’ll enjoy it, I think.”
“Was it very exciting?”
“Oh yes, although I don’t know how much I like coffee, really. So bitter. The café got a little loud and rowdy last time, when two men started arguing. They had to be escorted out.”
“Let’s meet there,” I say. “I know Léon will want to.”
Geneviève’s eyes sparkle. “What time? I think late afternoon would be best.”
It requires no persuasion to convince Léon of the plan. “I’d thought of asking you to accompany me to Café du Foy one of these days,” he says. “I confess, after hearing all of your stories of Geneviève, especially when the two of you explored Versailles by night, I’ve been curious to meet her.”
Étienne is older than I expected, nearing thirty. Silver shines at his temples, perhaps a little prematurely, but his smile is broad, youthful, and infectious. Geneviève lights up like a candle whenever he smiles at her, his gray eyes turning smoky with warmth. He towers over her, and when she nestles close to his chest, his broad shoulders and stocky build nearly shield her lanky figure from view if one is standing behind them.
Léon hands me a cup of coffee, sipping at his own. Although Papa adores the beverage, I’ve rarely tasted it. The bitterness fills my mouth, and I pinch back a cringe, keeping my expression neutral. After a moment, though, only a dusky richness is left, and I find myself taking another sip, more willingly. I wish I could’ve had more sugar, though.
“That’s Desmoulins over there.” Léon’s fingertips nudge against my wrist, and his lips brush my ear as he leans closer, whispering. “The one with the dark hair, gesturing profusely as he talks.”
I study the man unobtrusively, until it occurs to me that the busy café, full of animated, excited people, doesn’t require much subtlety. With his wavy dark hair and fine features, Desmoulins looks almost effeminate. The spark of fervor burns in his eyes, though, making him appear strong and fierce as well.
He sees me looking at him, and I hastily take another sip of coffee, regretting my gawking. I overestimated the busyness of the café, it appears. After a few minutes, when his conversation has ended, he crosses the room toward us, greeting a few others along the way. He seems to know almost everyone.
“H-have we met?” he asks politely, his gaze sidling to Léon as well.
“No, I have not yet had the honor, Citoyen Desmoulins. I’m Giselle Aubry, and this is Léon Gauvain. Léon tells me that we have you to thank for the wonderful popularity of the tricolor cockades.”
“I heard your speech last July, when Necker was dismissed. It was very convincing.” Léon glances down at the tricolor rosette pinned to his coat, grinning ruefully.
Desmoulins inclines his head. He doesn’t smile, but his expression seems to warm somehow. “You give m-me too much credit, but I thank you for the compliment. The cockades are a symbol of a very powerful movement—I daresay it scarcely needed my encouragement.” As he speaks, his faint stammer fades, and his voice gains the confidence to match his assured posture.
He continues to speak of the ideals of the revolution, and I feel a spike of shyness, afraid to say the wrong thing or mention that I work for the queen. I don’t know how well that would be accepted here, and I notice that Geneviève keeps her mouth shut on that subject too. Léon carries the conversation though, drawing Desmoulins into a discussion of the ways in which equality might be improved.
“Equality is so logical,” says Léon, waving his hands. His eyes flash. “I cannot see how the king can deny the changes much longer, especially when the Assembly is so determined to make them.”
The corners of Desmoulins’s mouth twitch. “Any man can make mistakes, but only an idiot persists in his error. Cicero said that, and I think he was quite right. I fear our king may be an idiot.”
It’s a shocking statement, treasonous in normal times, but no one blinks at it here. I sip my coffee again, to hide my reaction. I wonder if the king will see past his mistakes. Truthfully, I don’t believe they are all his; he inherited some from generations of predecessors, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be held accountable for setting things right now.
“I haven’t read as much as I would like, but I’ve recently obtained a copy of one of Cicero’s works on rhetoric.” Léon tries to sound casual, but I know him well enough to hear the excitement in his voice. No wonder he likes it at Café du Foy so much; it’s the center point for a storm of revolutionary and political ideals, much frequented by intellectuals. Léon wishes to be seen as a scholar as well as a craftsman, I think, given his love of books. I resolve to raid my father’s library for books that may interest Léon, for both of us to read. I’d like to be able to talk with him about them too.
“I studied the classics quite extensively,” admits Desmoulins. “I always admired Cicero, and Tacitus, as well.”
I can see Geneviève, who has been engrossed in a separate conversation with Étienne and another couple approximately ten years older than we are, lose interest in their chat, and listen in to Léon and Desmoulins. A slight wrinkle appears between her eyes as she deems this just as boring, and she catches my eye, grinning. “Do you like your coffee?” she murmurs, so as not to interrupt too loudly.
“It’s interesting here,” I say.
“About to get more so.” She lifts her chin in the direction of a newcomer making his way purposefully toward our group. “That’s Maximilien de Robespierre. Also very revolutionary.”
I recognize the name from reading the newspapers and political pamphlets. He’s a member of the Jacobin club, a revolutionary political group comprised mostly of professional men, at least in Paris, although there are other branches throughout France. The Comte de Mirabeau
is the current leader of the group, which I have always found vaguely surprising, because I’ve seen correspondence from the queen addressed to him lying on her desk.
Robespierre’s countenance is also easily recognized from the political sketches. He has a sloping forehead, and his alleged strong-mindedness is matched by the strength of his features.
“Are you talking of Cicero again?” he scolds Desmoulins. “What could he possibly have to say that would be relevant nowadays?”
Desmoulins smiles. “How about this? ‘Peace is liberty in tranquility.’”
Robespierre grins back wolfishly. “Not bad, and I like the sentiment behind it. We need peace, if that’s what it may be defined as. It will come; I have faith.”
Desmoulins turns to Léon. “Robespierre believes the people of France are fundamentally good, and therefore capable of advancing the well-being of the nation above their own individual desires.”
“I never said it’d be easy, though,” Robespierre adds. He makes introductions with Léon, who remembers my presence and presents me as well. Robespierre studies me in a way that makes me blush, not because it is improper or lewd, but because he has the focus of a man learning a face, memorizing a name, someone accustomed to remembering everyone he meets. They continue their political and philosophical conversation, and I leave them for a while to visit with Geneviève and Étienne, until Robespierre’s powerful voice catches my attention again, extolling the brilliance of Rousseau.
“You admire the writings of Rousseau?” I ask, accidentally interrupting.
Fortunately, no one seems to mind. Robespierre stares down at me in approval. “Indeed. Have you read his work?”
I nod. Papa has all of his works, and besides, I’ve heard Madame Campan read from his books to the queen many times. I’m surprised to hear such a fervent revolutionary quoting him though. I think back to the passage where the princess ignorantly declared that her starving people could eat cake, and remember that contemporary people have accused Marie Antoinette of saying it. Someone who studied Rousseau would surely see through the sham, realize it’s a fiction dating from the queen’s childhood.
Curious as I am, it’s too dangerous to ask the question here. Instead I bring up an unrelated passage from Rousseau and ask Robespierre for his opinion. He seems glad to give it, and later on, when the conversation has trickled in another direction, Léon squeezes my hand.
“I like that you are well-read,” he says, his voice a low vibration close to my ear. “I like being able to talk to you about anything, even books. Some people find it a dry topic.… I think my father does sometimes. He used to say that I was the smartest of the family, but he was always happy to leave anything bookish to me.”
“I see why you enjoy it here. There is plenty of intellectual conversation to go around.” I nudge his arm teasingly.
He smiles back briefly before slanting a serious gaze toward me. “I get a little uncertain sometimes. The revolution grows so complicated.… Sometimes I fear I misunderstand it. It eased me to have you here with me today. A man cannot help but feel confident with a lovely woman at his side.”
I kiss his cheek. “I enjoyed our outing too. The conversations were quite stimulating.” It was interesting to see Léon surrounded by other revolutionaries. I knew of his passion for reform, of course, but I feel now that I understand the depth of it. I make a silent promise to myself that I shall do my best not to let my place at court and my secret sympathies for Marie Antoinette cause arguments between us. We don’t have to agree on everything—Lord knows Geneviève and I don’t, and our friendship is strong—but we can respect each other’s boundaries. I regard Léon with too much esteem for anything less.
* * *
A fortnight after our visit to Café du Foy, on the fourteenth day of July, there’s a fête for the one-year anniversary of the fall of the Bastille. Léon and I make plans to attend the celebration together. Most of Paris will be there, convening at the Champs de Mars.
Léon meets me in the gardens, near my favorite small fountain, hiding in a corner. “It’s a shame the sky is so cloudy. The whole world should be dazzled with sunlight today.”
Amused by his enthusiasm for the fête de la fédération, I smile and squeeze his hand in mine. “Little chance of that, I’m afraid.”
“A few raindrops won’t stop us.” He hesitates. “Will they still be able to do the fireworks in this wet weather, do you think? I was looking forward holding you close to me while we watched them.” His eyes gleam with warmth, heating my blood and quickening my heartbeat.
I tilt my face toward his. “I don’t think we need fireworks for that.”
Léon bends his head to mine, moving slowly, and his gaze traces across the shape of my face, from my cheekbones to my mouth, an almost palpable caress. Our eyes meet intensely, as though he wants me to read the depth of his feeling, to peer into his soul. My anticipation for our kiss sweeps through me, fluttering low and sweet through my belly as my lips part.
Sunlight pierces the roil of gray clouds, slanting down over us, throwing sparks of light off the shifting water of the fountain. I half-close my eyes against the brightness, but I don’t want to stop looking at Léon. Dipped in sunshine and pressed close to him, I feel utterly happy.
“Giselle, you’re so beautiful.” Léon’s voice drops to a purr, and his breath whispers across my lips, tempting me even more to kiss him. “It breaks me. I planned to wait, but this moment is perfect and I don’t want to waste it.” He strokes his fingers along the side of my neck, cradling his hand under my jaw. “I love you. Will you marry me?”
I close the gap between us, pressing my lips to his, sliding my hands behind his head to play with the silky strands of hair curling along the nape of his neck. He tightens his arms around my waist, embracing me with a fierce joy that echoes mine.
“Yes, Léon. I will marry you.”
His eyes glitter, as soft and warm as velvet. “I’m so glad you said yes, Giselle.” His voice sounds throaty and rich. “I was fairly sure you cared for me as much as I do for you, but apparently a man always has a frightening lurch of doubt when asking such a significant question.” He grins. “I had a special day all planned, but—”
“This was perfect,” I assure him. “It isn’t often we get to be alone in this busy garden, and the sunshine singled us out on a dreary day.” I can’t stop smiling.
Léon touches the corner of my mouth gently, grinning back at me. “A marvelous omen for us. We’ll be so happy, Giselle. I promise I’ll be a good husband to you.”
“I know you will be. And I’ll try to be a good wife.”
“What, you won’t promise?” He chuckles, knowing that I’m teasing him.
“I can’t promise to never be haughty or impatient or not to talk about the queen’s gowns for an hour at a time. But I do swear to always love you and to be open with you, to build a life with you.”
“It will be a good life,” Léon says, growing earnest. “I won’t be an apprentice too much longer, and then I hope I’ll make a comfortable living. Watchmakers often do, and I have some ideas for patriotic watch designs. They should be popular. I know you dream of becoming a famous dress designer like Rose Bertin. Maybe we’ll put together matching combinations of cloaks and pocket watches.” He grins.
“I like that idea. Especially since I’ve given up wanting to model myself after Rose Bertin. I’d rather be known for clothes that are both sensible and fashionable.”
The corner of the garden is still deserted apart from us, but I lower my voice anyway. “Léon, I promised I’d be open with you, and since you’re going to be my husband, there are some things you ought to know.” Wariness creeps over him, shadowing his eyes and tightening his shoulders. I suppose I didn’t begin very well, so I make up for it by jumping straight to the point, albeit through a whisper to his ear. “I’ve been spying on the queen for over a year.”
He stiffens in surprise and stares at me curiously. “What do you mean?”
I tell him about my uncle, and the family legacy of the Secret du Roi, even, for added explanation, a few of the specific things I have reported to my uncle. “I don’t know what he does with the information.… As far as I know, he does nothing, storing it away for himself. Perhaps he is only nostalgic for the days of the Secret du Roi.”
“Or perhaps he corresponds with other people. Other writers, politicians…” His mouth quirks in thought, and then he gives me a serious look. “Are you good at espionage?” asks Léon.
“I believe so. You didn’t suspect.”
“I’m not part of the queen’s household, either. Ought I to count?”
“Always, with me.” I trail my fingers along the back of his hand.
He flips his hand over, twining my fingers with his. “But not as someone whose suspicion matters.”
“Madame Campan likes me, and she would be the most likely to suspect. I’m sure no one else does. Anyway, it doesn’t matter much; it’s just for my family, which you will now be part of.”
“Remember when we first met, and I talked to you of revolutionary ideals for hours? You had a reasonable counter for nearly all of my points—”
“I enjoyed the debate,” I interject.
“But the whole time, you were secretly being a revolutionary. How mysterious you are, Giselle.” His smile lights his face, rounding out the hollows under his cheekbones and making his eyes gleam with affection.
I try to shrug away the sudden bashfulness that washes over me. “I wasn’t trying to be mysterious.”
“I know; I’m only teasing. You always surprise me in good ways. When we met, I was so pleased when you first spoke to me. You were so pretty, but you seemed a little haughty, with your queenly head tilts.” He grins. “As we spent more time together, and I discovered your kindness and cleverness, I fell in love. I’m so glad we’ll get to spend our lives together.”
His gentle teasing and tender words make me smile. “I’m happy too.” The simple words seem insufficient to express the swell of joy in my heart, but he kisses me gently, and I think he understands.
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