“It seems to me the two are irrevocably intertwined.”
“They aren’t. I’ve worked here longer than you, and she has never approved fully of me. Then again, I never tripped over myself trying to fawn up to her, telling her about poems and frosty windows.”
Geneviève’s temper isn’t unfamiliar, but it has never been directed so harshly at me. Stung, I feel too hurt to be angry, and my voice sounds small. “I just wanted to talk to her. I wanted to feel like I fit in at Versailles. I was new and feeling a bit lost.”
“Talk to her? Or see if she would talk to you? There’s a big difference between the two, Giselle. Don’t fool yourself.”
I cross my arms and lean against the wardrobe. Maybe she’s right, but it doesn’t justify her vindictiveness. It also doesn’t make me feel better to admit that possibility. “And so? I want to keep my job here, and if that means ingratiating myself toward the queen or Madame Campan, so be it.”
She flounces across the room, sits down heavily on the bed, and throws her hands up. “I’ve given up caring. The revolution is happening all around us, and they refuse to talk about it, even though it’s their fault. It’s ridiculous. I’m tired of the games and the deceit. It was amusing for a while, but I’m finished now.”
“Amusing? There have been a great many dangerous moments as well.”
“Oh yes, but they were exciting, too. I felt drunk on it, you know, when the rioters stormed Versailles. If not for the exhilaration, I never would have dared to write that silly poem on the inside of the door, on the way to the king’s rooms. I was nearly caught then—there was so little time. I’d only just discovered that door a few hours earlier.”
Aghast, I stare at her. My eyes widen so much that they feel cold. “That was you?”
She shrugs, but from the way she looks aside, I think she feels a wash of shame. “I thought you guessed.”
“And the poison plots? Were you behind them, too?” My voice grates harshly. I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. Geneviève has always been headstrong and brave and a bit outrageous, but she pushed it further than I ever dreamed she could.
“No! Good God, Giselle, you know me better than that. When things like that were happening, I didn’t need the cruel little notes. I’d hoped they would spur change at the palace, that they’d help the queen see the revolution was a real, important thing, something that she was causing, but I don’t think she ever thought of it. Perhaps years of overly elaborate hairstyles have numbed her brain.” She smirks briefly. “But if poison attempts would not persuade her to face the revolution, I realized my notes were utterly useless, and I gave them up. For all the fright they caused Marie Antoinette, they weren’t spurring her to any action, so there was no point in continuing.”
I sit down beside her, still shocked. “I can’t believe that was you.” Geneviève has a sharpness about her and can say rather spiteful things sometimes, but this still surprises me.
“I was angry,” says Geneviève slowly. “People were starving, desperately trying to scrape two sous together. People were drowning under years of oppression. They still are; we are only now breaking free. Some might say the royal family deserved a little trouble.” She sounds defensive.
I sigh, racked by torn loyalties I can’t articulate. “It’s a hard world, everywhere.” She looks frightened, eyes bright and shoulders hunched, and when I realize it’s out of worry that I’ll repudiate her, our argument dissolves away. She’s still my closest friend, and I can’t judge her too harshly in light of my own spy work. I squeeze her hand. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Thank you. You’re a good friend. I don’t care if they find out, anyway. I’ve had just about enough of working here. I can’t be here, in the middle of the wrong side of the revolution. I just don’t believe in it.”
“You know yourself so well.” I feel a pang of envy for her self-assurance. Truthfully, I’ve rarely paused to seriously consider my own beliefs as to the revolution. I’ve been caught up in the perceived glamour of spying, enthralled by Léon’s passion for change, reflective of the new laws and shifting politics, and even with all that involvement, I let myself be swept into the personal turmoil of the queen. I have supported the revolution, but I continue to protect her, too. Every day Paris turns into a more divided city, and I don’t properly belong on either side.
“What isn’t to know?” she asks, with apparently genuine curiosity. “I’m the only person I’ll ever have to live with for my whole life—I ought to know exactly how I feel about everything. It makes sense.”
“It isn’t that simple, not for everyone.”
“Oh. Well, I’m sure you know everything about yourself, too. You just have to stop to think about it.” She offers me a tentative smile. “You often seem to have your head in the clouds, Giselle.”
“Are you going to give notice, then?”
“Yes. I probably have to, after today. Madame Campan wasn’t pleased. Even as I was speaking, I knew it would be better to bite my tongue, but I was dreadfully weary of holding things back.”
“I wish you didn’t write the notes,” I say, before I think it through. At once, I wish I hadn’t spoken.
The remnants of Geneviève’s smile vanish, and her eyes turn smoky. “I did, and I can’t take it back.”
We fall quiet as we climb into our beds and blow out the candles. I lie still, hoping that if I remain silent and motionless, I’ll suddenly find it is morning.
The blankets rustle as Geneviève sits up. I see her silhouette, the faintest shadowy impression against the dark. “I’m not proud of the notes. I thought I would be.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I felt—the circumstances.… I only wanted to help.” She sits up a moment longer, and I can feel her peering at me, before she flops back down, yawning audibly. “Things always look better in the morning, I think.”
A wave of sleepiness crashes over me. “Yes, they always do. Good night, Geneviève.” The pillows seem softer, and I drift away, feeling a little more optimistic.
In the morning Madame Campan sends Geneviève and me on separate errands. When I return from mine, there is no sign of my friend, and Madame Campan greets me with a satisfied tilt to her head and a faintly smug curl to her mouth.
“Where is Geneviève?” I ask, suspecting I know the answer already.
“I dismissed her. Such a fervent revolutionary has no place here. It was also hazardous to continue with the plan as long as she remained in service. The queen is convinced she was a spy.”
“I don’t think she was.” I was the spy, only I have stopped now. Geneviève had her own vendetta against the queen, however, which I cannot defend, and remembering it trills my voice with hesitancy.
“I’m sorry; I know you were friends. But her incendiary ideas didn’t belong here.” Madame Campan’s voice softens. “You may need to consider your friends more carefully, Giselle.” Somehow the gentle tone makes the words more insulting.
I bob my head stiffly. “Yes, Madame.”
She seems not to notice the resentment making me look down, glaring at the floor. Though hushed, her voice gains a note of excitement. “I didn’t find an opportunity to tell you yesterday, but I have news. The plan shall proceed tomorrow night. The king wanted to leave tonight, but the queen persuaded him to wait a day, until Geneviève was gone. She would not move while under that girl’s watchful gaze.”
“I did everything I could to make sure Geneviève didn’t suspect. I even mentioned seeing a Russian baroness, to set up Madame de Tourzel’s disguise.”
Madame Campan presses her fingers together. “Oh no, my dear—I didn’t intend to imply you failed. The shortcoming was mine. I should have dismissed Geneviève long ago.”
Since the rooms seem dull to me without her, I turn the subject back to the plan. “We’ll be busy with the last-minute preparations, then,” I say to Madame Campan, grateful for the prospect of being busy, distracted by the impending escape.
�
�Yes,” she agrees, and commences to outline a list of tasks we must complete to ready the disguises.
The day passes in a whirl of preparations, piled on my regular tasks as a tirewoman. In fact, with Geneviève’s absence, I have more work than usual. I manage to sneak away to the garden for a few minutes around lunchtime, when Léon and I often meet.
He waits near the fountain, holding three flowers in his hand: a white rose, a red carnation, and a blue delphinium. Upon seeing me, his face beams with more warmth than the sun, eyes lighting up and a bright smile growing. I sink into his arms, pressing my mouth to his neck. His arms wind around me, hands sliding up my back, and it feels comfortable and exciting. I never want to move. Things are simple in Léon’s arms. There are no schemes or artifices here, only love and loyalty.
“I picked a bouquet for you,” he says at last, releasing me from our embrace. His fingers curl around mine, and he presses the stems into my hand with his free one. “I snapped off the rose thorns with my pocketknife. You deserve more flowers, ma belle, but I saw a rather grouchy-looking gardener, and I confess to being afraid to pick more.” He laughs low in his throat. “If I was evicted from the gardens today, I wouldn’t get to see you.”
“I’m glad you’re here.” I lean closer to him, brushing my lips against his earlobe. I like the way his fingers tighten around mine. His other hand curves around my hip. “I have a plan to see even more of you.”
He licks his lips and stares at me. The sunlight makes his dark brown eyes gleam with flecks of molten gold, melting every sinew in my body. I lean against him, feeling suddenly feverish.
“Due to an unexpected schedule change, Madame Campan gave me the night off. My parents don’t know of it. Tonight I have the freedom to go anywhere.” I tilt my face up, brushing my lips against his. I’m not even trying to be teasing or seductive anymore. The heat in his eyes makes me feel deliciously wanton. “I could spend the night with you.”
Our lips are already tantalizingly close, and Léon fastens his mouth to mine with a low groan, kissing me with such passion and enthusiasm that I wish I’d thought of this sooner. The heady feeling outrivals being drunk on wine.
“If you didn’t already know, I hope my reaction told you how much I’d like that,” he murmurs, stroking my hair. “I can’t invite you to my room, though. Monsieur Renard would know if I had someone over.”
“I thought of that. I know of an inn we can use. I have a bit of money; I just received my wages. We can meet there.”
“Are you sure, Giselle? We’ll be married soon, after all.”
“Don’t you want to?”
He smiles in the crooked, endearing way I love so much, the left corner of his mouth rising slightly higher, lifting his eyebrow with it. His eyes glitter with a mixture of desire and humor. “More than anything. I’m not a madman. But I want to be certain you want to.… I’ve waited for you, for someone I love, my whole life. I could wait a few more weeks if you weren’t sure.”
“I’m absolutely certain. I don’t want to wait a few more weeks.”
He gathers me into his arms, resting his cheek against my hair. “Tonight, then.” The tremor quaking through his body echoes mine. “What time shall we meet?”
Chapter Fifteen
JUNE 1791
After my interlude with Léon in the Tuileries gardens, the rest of the afternoon seems strangely paced. Sometimes it drags, and I squirm with anxious anticipation for the hour of our meeting. But the secretive preparations for the queen’s flight do not stop. The tasks, rushed to meet the strict deadline, tussle with the vital importance of maintaining the secret. They keep me so busy that sometimes I find an hour has passed in a flicker of moments.
The queen retires to her rooms early, pleading a headache. Her eyes gleam bright silver with purpose, and her footsteps flutter with grace and lightness. Rosy pink stains her cheeks. She looks far brighter and more animated than I’ve seen her in a long while. Frankly, it’s a good thing she’s in the privacy of her own rooms, because anyone seeing her would never believe the story of a headache. Supper is brought to her room, chicken broth with soft white bread, a suitable meal for someone feeling ill. She sends it away after eating only a few bites.
“I can’t eat,” she says restlessly to Madame Campan. “My nerves jangle too much.”
“You need your strength,” says Madame Campan, her tone mild.
“It’s just as well,” I say. “Lack of appetite fits with headache symptoms.”
“The idea occurred to me as well.” Marie Antoinette smiles at me unexpectedly. “You have served me very well, Giselle. I wanted to tell you that before I go. When we return, when Paris has grown safer and the revolution is under control, I hope you’ll return to my household. There will always be a place for you here.”
Her warm, charming smile catches me off guard, and eases some of the weight of the preparations from my shoulders. I feel myself relax a little, the way one does when sitting in the sunshine after a busy morning. I curtsy slightly. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I would like that.”
“I have something for you. Come here.” The words ring crisp and clear, an unmistakable command. When I stand directly in front of her, she reaches into a small silk bag knotted with a blue cord. The item she pulls out is small enough to be nearly disguised by her smooth fingertips, but the glitter of rubies catches the lamplight, tossing sparks of fire over the pale skin of her hand. “I would like you to have it.”
Marie Antoinette puts the brooch into my hand before I can reply. It feels cool and hard, the gold trim heavy. It’s the shape of a rose, with dozens of tiny rubies making up the petals. The whole thing is probably the size of my thumb. For her, it is a small thing, hardly more than a trifle. For me, it is a rich gift, and an honorable one too. I balance it on my fingertips, resting it gently, and look to her in surprise.
“Are you certain? Your Majesty, I have no need for anything.”
She laughs at my expression and that I have thoughtlessly questioned her. The sound reminds me of delicate wind chimes. I’ve never heard her laugh like that. She’s always been reserved, detached, and the gaiety bubbling from her lips like champagne makes her seem like a different person, a younger one. The pending flight from Paris has imbued her with hope, and it has changed her. I wonder if this is her true self.
“Yes. You’re taking a risk, helping me. I want to reward you. The work of this night may extend into the future. It seems right that I give you something that may help you then.” Her mouth still softens in a faint smile, but a serious glint forms in her eyes.
Having a sudden, disconcerting notion that the brooch is also meant to buy my continued silence, I feel my cheeks grow warm. I meet her eyes steadily. “I will guard this secret, Your Majesty.”
She nods as regally as if she wore a crown and held a scepter, instead of sitting in a chair near the bed with her hair half-unpinned, a trunk near her feet. When she doesn’t argue or seek elaboration on my words, I know I interpreted correctly.
“Take care of yourself, Giselle,” she says. “May God protect you.”
“And you, Your Majesty.” I hesitate, feeling inadequate for this rather formal farewell. “I hope—Have a safe journey. I will pray for you and the children. I wish you luck.”
Her hand moves, and for a startling second, I think she is going to grasp my own. She is a queen, though, accustomed to remaining a step higher than most other people, born of noble blood. She nods in a way that reminds me of a blessing instead, and gives me a serene smile. “Thank you, Giselle.”
Madame Campan’s farewell is warmer and less confusing, and also less final. “Perhaps we will see each other in Paris on occasion.” I think she wants to have someone to reminisce about the queen with, counting the days until they are reunited. “I may follow her to Montmédy later. If it’s safe, if she’ll be there long enough. She’ll send for me if I’m needed.”
“She will miss you,” I tell Madame Campan. The nervousness lurking around her hand
s and eyes tells me she needs to hear the words, but I know they’re true. “She relies on you.”
“Be careful tonight, Giselle,” she says to me in parting. “Don’t forget to arrange the rooms as you go.”
“I won’t. Good-bye, Madame Campan.” Impulsively, I squeeze her hand, and she pulls me into a hug. I never thought we were so close, but becoming conspirators has created a bond between us. She smells of rosewater and pats my back in a motherly fashion.
On my way through the outer chambers, I put out the candles and arrange the cushions on the chaise longues, just as I normally would before bed. I put away all the clothes and a spare pair of slippers the queen left lying out. She has so many clothes that no one will notice any are missing, at least not quickly, in spite of the fact that she packed a great deal of them. Too many, I think, but I suppose she isn’t used to traveling light.
Lastly, I say good night to the other tirewomen, who have been dismissed from waiting on the queen for the night, and sit sewing in the outer antechamber. “The queen has gone to sleep early, with her headache,” I say, yawning. “Madame Campan said you can retire for the night. I cleaned up in the inner rooms, so that’s all done.”
They wander off, pleased to put their sewing aside early. I follow, and slip into the bedroom that I used to share with Geneviève. I think it’s unlikely anyone will enter here or look for me until morning. I debate plumping the pillows under the blanket to make it look like I am asleep, and then I decide it will be less suspicious if it is left made and tidy. It will fit better if anyone asks later, since the queen will be gone from Paris, but I will not. I will simply tell the partial truth that Madame Campan sent me away for the night. This is probably the last time I will see this little bedroom in Tuileries. It seems lonely without Geneviève, and too tidy. She always left her hair ribbons strewn around. I’m glad I don’t have to spend the night in this empty room alone, and think happily of Léon.
Before I leave to meet him for our tryst, I take precautions to prevent pregnancy. I want to be able to make love to him without fearing for the future, although since our wedding is only a couple of weeks away, I suppose it wouldn’t matter drastically if we started a baby early. Still, I want to be married to him for a few months first. I want to enjoy Léon to myself for a while, and while I dream of being a mother someday, I’m only eighteen and there is no need to hurry. My own mother was twenty when she gave birth to me.
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