“Taunt you? You silly girl, it’s not that simple. I’m not mocking you for the failed escape—do you even realize the gravity of what you have done? The consequences of your choice? Thanks to your deception and a damnable postman in Varennes, I came out empty-handed on this. I made promises to protect us all, and now I’ll have to explain—” He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. “I had reservations about the revolution at first, but no more. The king, and especially the queen, cannot be allowed to continue with their mindless frivolity.” His usually soft voice rings with anger, jaws opening wide with each word.
Papa walks into the room, his calm strides providing a stark foil to my uncle’s erratic hand gestures. “Pierre, you must leave our house now.”
“I spoke too harshly,” admits my uncle. “The revolution makes short tempers, even for me. I’m sorry if it sounded like I was attacking Giselle.” He glances at me, but I don’t see apology in his eyes, and his phrasing sidestepped it as well. His voice turns silky. “But I think we need to discuss this further, as a family. What Giselle did is very dangerous, for her, and for all of us. If it’s found out that she aided their attempted escape, we will all be associated with her crime.”
When Papa puts his hand on my shoulder, I feel the tension vibrating through his fingers, taut like harp strings, and I realize he is not calm at all, in spite of his smooth countenance.
“Charlotte and I are happy to be associated with our daughter, no matter what may happen. She did what she thought right, and I’m proud of her for it. If we choose to discuss it as a family, you will not be a participant. This is for immediate family only.” He pauses, grimness drawing lines around the corners of his mouth. “It shall be some time before we see each other again, Pierre.”
It must have been years since anyone resisted my uncle’s commanding attitude, refused to defer to his belief in his greater knowledge. Hearing my father’s dismissal, he actually stammers in shock, something I’ve never heard him do in my entire life. Papa easily herds him to the door, his movements steady but implacable. Uncle Pierre jams his hat over his gray hair and pauses on the threshold, throwing a sharp, broken glance toward me.
“What shall I tell Eugénie? She will want to see you.”
I want to tell him that she can visit anytime, without him, but the sting of his betrayal still burns through my veins, and I choke on the words. He used me and Geneviève both, playing us unwittingly against each other, knowing it might destroy our friendship and doing it anyway. Scorn clears my throat, lets the words loose. “Tell Eugénie the truth.” I turn my back on him, and Papa closes the door with a solid, final click.
“I’ve wanted to tell him to leave for a long time,” says Papa, sighing. A weight seems to have been lifted from his shoulders, but he also looks tired. He follows me back into the parlor and gives me a gentle smile. “Facts are not wisdom, Giselle, and you have already learned it. I’m so proud of you.”
Hope flickers in my chest, but it doesn’t take away the aching loss of losing Léon. My heart feels like shards of broken glass. “I’m not proud of myself. I learned the lesson too late.” My voice sounds as small as I feel.
“There’s no such thing,” says Papa firmly. “Better late than never—it may be often said, but it holds true. And I don’t believe you were too late, anyway. You were true to your beliefs when it came down to a difficult choice. Not many have the courage to face themselves in that way.”
I want to talk about Léon, to ask my father if he thinks Léon will ever forgive me, but a lump clogs my throat. After a moment I find other words instead. “How long have you wanted to evict Uncle Pierre from our house? I had no idea you felt that way.”
He shrugs. “You’re an adult now, Giselle, so I’ll speak frankly to you. I’ve never liked Pierre, but we got along well enough for your mother’s sake. However, even she has grown impatient with him lately. The political unrest is just the kind of thing he glories in, the precise situation to let him pretend he isn’t an obsolete, unemployed old spy, but he takes it too far. We are people, not puppets, and he’s not always right.”
“Maman is impatient with him too?” I’m surprised—they always seemed to be fairly close siblings.
“Yes. He’s always treated her with a certain degree of condescension, but she used to attribute it to the protective, slightly skewed, attitude of an older brother to his younger sister. She could handle it and didn’t mind doing so. But she resented his use of you for his games of spy work.”
“She did? Why didn’t she say anything?”
Papa smiles gently. “I will let her answer that.”
Maman crosses the threshold of the room. “I don’t mean to lurk, but I didn’t want to interrupt. I heard everything, of course. Pierre can be so loud. Giselle, you did well. Please don’t fret over it.” She folds me in her arms, a delicate, lavender-scented embrace that makes me feel like a child again, in a comforting way.
“I’ll try.” I pause. “Maman, did you want me to quit spying for Pierre?”
“I hoped you would,” she says, her voice soft and sweet. “I understood it was exciting at first—even I felt it. But as time passed, and the unrest grew, along with Pierre’s smugness, I thought it was unhealthy.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“I wanted to,” chimes in Papa. “I wanted to forbid it.” His mouth twitches in a chagrined smile. “Charlotte reminded me that being too strict and blunt would only further set you on that course. She said I should wait and let you make your own choice.” He bends his head indulgently toward me, at the same time squeezing Maman’s hand. “She was always confident you would make the right one. I should have known not to let even a flicker of doubt cross my mind.”
“Thank you.” It relieves me to know that they stand firmly by my side. In my months of being an under-tirewoman and a spy, I imagined so much pressure on myself, battering down on all sides from my family, the queen, Madame Campan, even Léon, but in the end it was myself I had to be true to. I try to smile, but sorrow anchors my face away from too much happiness, in spite of all their support. “Uncle Pierre was right, though, that I brought danger close to us. I’m sorry for that.”
“You’re unlikely to be implicated,” says Papa reassuringly. “They’ll go after people like Count von Fersen first, and blame the king and queen most of all.”
“If it ever does come back to you, my darling, you won’t be held too accountable,” says Maman quietly. “You were only a tirewoman, after all, unable to stand up to the queen.” The glint in her eyes shows the obliqueness of her statement. She doesn’t undermine my ability to make a choice, my own strong-mindedness, but it’s a possible defense. I hope I shall never have to use it.
“I hope no one is punished,” I say with foolish optimism.
“We can pray for that,” agrees Papa.
“I wish—” The words stop in my throat, crushed by vulnerability. I look at the floor and speak very carefully. “I wish Léon understood as well as you do.”
Maman strokes my hair back from my forehead like she used to do when I had a nightmare and could not sleep. “He may come to understand, in time.”
“And if he does not, he’s not worthy of you,” Papa says authoritatively.
I try to believe him, but it doesn’t erase the pain in my heart.
* * *
As the weeks pass and gossip spreads faster than a grass fire on a dry August day, I piece together most of the facts about the ill-fated flight to Varennes, only thirty miles from Montmédy.
Von Fersen himself drove the coach as far as Bondy. Unfortunately, the royal family was delayed only forty miles outside of Paris, for the necessity of coach repairs. This stroke of bad fortune meant they missed the relays at Varennes. Even if Louis hadn’t been recognized by the postmaster, it was already a serious setback in their plans. Apparently, Léonard, the queen’s hairdresser, had passed through Varennes a few hours earlier without incident, as had a few of the qu
een’s ladies.
Marie Antoinette had tried to persuade the wife of the mayor of Varennes to aid them in their flight, explaining that she could help restore tranquility to France by doing so. Knowing the queen as I do, I find it easy to imagine the charm she would have demonstrated, the gentle desperation, the quiet logic. She often has a rare talent for winning people to her side, in person at least, for her skill seems not to extend to crowds. However, the lady declined sorrowfully, saying that even though she loved her king, she loved her husband more, and he’d be held at fault if she let the royal family continue their frantic journey. The queen didn’t give up easily, and the party remained at Varennes for some hours. Some gossipers insinuate that she displayed her poor judgment and lack of connection to reality by fighting so long for a lost cause when the mayor clearly would not help, but I believe Marie Antoinette had another end in mind with her delays. She hoped to give the Marquis de Bouillé time to travel to Varennes with his soldiers and extricate them from the terrible situation. How she must have mourned when he never came to rescue them.
* * *
Two things happen to me in early July, bringing unwelcome reminders of the drastic ways my life has changed.
One morning, a letter is delivered to our house, addressed to me. Written in Madame Campan’s sturdy, elegant script, it invites me back into service as one of the queen’s tirewomen at Tuileries. I cringe to imagine how the palace must now feel like a prison to Marie Antoinette, in spite of its size and luxury. There is even a scrawled sentence at the end, written in rich blue ink, in the queen’s own hand. I recognize it from seeing papers on her desk. She briefly thanks me for previous service and expresses her desire to have loyal friends near her.
Maman and Papa both watch me carefully while I set the letter aside and sit near the window, thinking the offer over, although they try not to be obvious about it. Maman fusses over a roll of yarn, and Papa sharpens a pencil so thoroughly that the lead snaps.
“I’m not going back,” I tell them, to their obvious but unspoken relief. Even knowing the queen must be worried and constantly be spied upon by her enemies, that she could perhaps find comfort in having friends near, I can’t return. It might not be entirely logical, but I feel that if I go back, I will have lost Léon for nothing.
A week after the delivery of the letter, Maman persuades me to go for a walk to enjoy some fresh air. I find myself wandering listlessly down the rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine. In spite of my stern self-instructions not to think of Léon, I can’t help remembering all the times we walked along this street together, talking and laughing, reaching for each other’s hands. We met on this street even, sharing the stolen bottle of wine, our connection immediate and profound.
I step around a vegetable cart, and my heart lurches into my throat. Léon is across the street, walking with another man about the same age. I’d recognize Léon anywhere, whether I could see his face or not. I know the smooth springiness of his steps, the length of his arms, the shape of his shoulders. His hair, always just a bit curly, seems shorter, but it still clings to the back of his neck in the same way.
He wears the sleek navy coat and red-trimmed white shirt of the national guard.
Rooted to the spot, I stare at him in disbelief. Léon never had any military aspirations, and it surprises me that he joined. Hazily, I find myself agreeing with Geneviève’s prediction. He does look well in the uniform. It makes him seem taller and very alert. Too late, I realize the alertness is not merely an illusion granted by the clothing; his gaze fastens upon me. I feel it sharply, and the air clenches in my lungs. He pauses midstride, still watching me. His lips part as if to speak, but his companion says something. Léon turns to him, fast and frowning with impatience. Before he can look back, I spin on my heel and slink home. I’m not brave enough to face him.
Chapter Seventeen
JULY 1791
“There’s a letter for you.” Papa hands me an envelope sealed with an untidy blob of wax. The envelope is a bit tattered, one corner bent, as if someone carried it in their pocket for a while before sending it. I recognize the elaborate curls of Geneviève’s writing at once, but it surprises me just the same. It’s been a month since her dismissal, since Varennes, and I feared our paths had diverged forever.
I do miss her, in spite of everything. We parted very suddenly, and so soon after the shocking revelation of her role in the anonymous notes. I don’t want to leave things unresolved, and it occurs to me that Geneviève probably doesn’t know I’d also been spying on the queen. My uncle would never have told her. He’d have preferred to keep us both in ignorance, quietly comparing the information we obediently fetched back to him. He used us both.
The wax crumbles under my fingers, and I slide the paper out of its grimy envelope. The tone of the letter recalls Geneviève’s animated voice to my mind, and carries the same wistful quality that I feel. She asks if we might meet at the Champs de Mars in a couple of days.
I miss you, my friend. I thought I would find you in the Tuileries gardens one day, but after the pathetic flight attempt of the monarchs, I hear you are no longer in the queen’s service either. One of the footmen told me when I saw him near Café du Foy.
I wonder if it’s the same footman who helped her monitor Count von Fersen’s plans as well, but it doesn’t matter. It’s over now.
Briefly, I explain the contents of the note to my parents, who are making little effort to disguise their curiosity.
A worried line creases Maman’s forehead. “Are you certain? She won’t like that you took the queen’s side.”
“I won’t tell her. I’ll pretend I knew nothing about it.” My experience with Léon has filled me with caution. “I plan to never tell anyone of my role in the flight to Varennes, ever. And I do want to see her. We were very close while working at the palace, and I miss my friend.”
“I understand,” says Maman.
“Be careful,” says Papa. “There have been riots lately.”
I manage a wry smile. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.” How odd, that riots should have become almost an ordinary event.
On the morning of July seventeenth, I dress myself in tricolor, preparing to meet Geneviève at the Champs de Mars. I’ve mostly been wearing old housedresses in muted grays and browns while holed up at home, and the boldness of the scarlet sash and the brilliant blue trim on my white dress feels startlingly bright.
Geneviève outdoes me in terms of revolutionary garb, however. In spite of the exuberant crowd milling around the Champs de Mars, I spot her almost at once at our agreed-upon meeting place, in the southeast corner, a little away from most of the people. A jaunty tricolor ribbon festoons her hair, and she has sewn red-white-and-blue-striped trim along the sleeves, hem, and waist of her dress.
“Giselle, how lovely to see you.” Her exclamation sounds joyful, and her eyes glitter with all their old roguishness. She squeezes my hand, brief but fierce, tugging me closer to her and away from the meandering steps of a group of middle-aged women moving past us, arguing loudly over a petition. She has started using a new scent, I notice, something green and peppery, very different from the lily perfume she favored before.
“Hello, Geneviève.”
She lets go of my hand, her exuberance fading into awkwardness. We stare at each other in silence.
“I confess, I’m glad you’re not still in the employ of the Citoyenne,” she says eventually, “Did she ask you back after Varennes? I bet she did, even after she turned tail and ran, leaving you without a job.” Her nose wrinkles with scorn.
Relief settles over me like a warm cloak. Geneviève doesn’t know that I helped to orchestrate the escape. Or if she does, she’s going to pretend ignorance, and that’s good enough for me right now. I need my friend.
Her smile wavers until I grin back at her, and then all of a sudden everything feels normal between us again.
“As if I would return after that. I’m rather sorry I had the night off when they fled. I’d have
liked to witness all the panic and flabbergasted stammering in the morning, when the lady-in-waiting went to wake the queen and found that great big bed empty. Afterward, once they had returned to Tuileries, Madame Campan did write me a letter, asking me back.”
“And clearly, you declined. I’m glad,” says Geneviève. “It feels right that neither of us serve her anymore, when she tried to run away from it all. How cowardly—you know, I never liked her much, but I did think she had a sort of stiff-backed royal pride. I must have been mistaken. It seems at odds with the attempted escape.”
“I thought so too.” I am afraid to say too much on the subject. Greater verbosity increases the chance for me to slip up in the lie. I nod seriously to counteract my lack of elaboration, which seems to be enough for Geneviève. She slants a glance toward me. “I nearly forgot—you had an assignation with Léon that night, did you not? Did you go to the inn I suggested?” Her face is bright with girlish curiosity.
“Yes,” I say unwillingly. It feels like talking through ice. “I don’t want to talk about him, though.”
She pats my shoulder, clucking with sympathy. “What happened? You two seemed deeply in love. I never expected you to call off your wedding. Léon simply told Étienne that the two of you wanted different things, and refused to speak more of it. Lord, the man can scowl. Even Étienne hardly dared inquire further.”
Léon certainly can glower with notable fierceness. The memory of his thundercloud expression and black eyes during our last meeting frequently slips into my mind, especially at night when I restlessly fail to sleep. “He’s right. We’re very different people, as it turns out.” The words are heavy to push from my throat, and fall into the air with a clipped, final tone.
“And you won’t say anything more either?”
“No.”
“Well, maybe someday you’ll wish to talk of it. When the heartache has eased. Or when the two of you are reconciled?” Her small, hopeful smile withers when I shake my head. “I should warn you, then: Léon and Étienne may be here today, somewhere. They’re both on duty as members of the national guard, and there seems to be a number of them here at the Champs de Mars this afternoon.” She hesitates, voice growing even gentler. “Did you know he joined the national guard? I think it must have been after you ended your engagement.”
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