In October the Marquis de Lafayette resigns as Commander of the national guard. His reputation never recovered since the flight to Varennes and the massacre on the Champs de Mars, and his voluntary removal from the post is generally looked upon with favor. Geneviève and Étienne laud his absence and look forward to the future. As has become routine for me, I try to remain aloof, but sometimes I feel a private kinship with Lafayette. Although I don’t know his true motivations, I imagine he’s like me, trying to do the right thing and please everybody, and failing miserably. Perhaps he will be happier with less involvement, although it hasn’t happened for me. My life is more peaceful now, but not happier.
One day in late January, when I’m walking home empty-handed from the bakery, I spy Maximilien de Robespierre striding down the street toward me. His broad forehead and catlike eyes make him easy to recognize. I intend to pass without speaking—after all, we met only once at Café du Foy and it was a long time ago. However, his step hitches as he passes me, and he turns around.
“Mademoiselle, I know you. You’re affianced to Léon Gauvain. Do me a favor, will you? Tell him I have moved.”
“Oh, I suppose he hasn’t told you—” I try to say, but Robespierre seems in a hurry and speaks over me, edging his feet down the sidewalk.
“After the dreadful events at the Champs de Mars, I feared for my safety, and I wanted to be nearer to the Assembly and the Jacobin club. Tell him to ask Maurice Duplay; he can give him directions. I’d be much obliged to you.” He marches off, then pauses to look back once more. “Tell him, please, to bring my copy of Rousseau, as well. I lent it to him.”
The strange interview leaves me with many questions, the chief of which is if Robespierre knows that Léon was one of the national guards at the Champs de Mars. I’m curious, too, about the loaned book. Have Léon and Robespierre become such great friends? I suppose I’ll have to ask Geneviève.
A woman with a bouquet of tricolor rosettes pinned to her hat stops me. “Was that Robespierre? The Incorruptible?”
“Er, yes.” It’s strange to refer to him by the nickname the papers sometimes use, gleaned from his well-known beliefs in revolutionary virtue based on the writings of Rousseau.
“And you know him? How remarkable. Do you think you could introduce me? I’m so curious about his opinion on the threat of war with Austria, and other countries against our revolution. Is it true that he believes France is ill prepared?”
“France is ill prepared,” I say, thinking of the chaos of the government and Louis’s chronic indecisiveness. Then I remember my personal vow to stay out of politics, and bite the rest of the words off short. “I’m sure Monsieur Robespierre has great knowledge on the subject. I don’t know him well—I’m merely to pass on a message for him, but if you hurry, perhaps he will speak to you.”
Before she can reply, I lengthen my strides and duck around the corner. If I ask her, Geneviève will give the message to Léon through Étienne, though I know it’s the coward’s choice and I ought to go see Léon myself. I’ve worried about him constantly since our last meeting after the massacre at the Champs de Mars, and although Geneviève assures me he is well, I want to see for myself. I still care about him.
I don’t know how his schedule has changed since joining the national guard, but I know he still works at the watchmaker’s shop, so I stop there before going home.
Léon’s eyes widen in surprise to see me strolling through the doorway. The shadows under his eyes are accentuated by the dark, nondescript clothing he wears while working behind the counter.
“Citoyenne Aubry, what can I do for you today?” he asks.
A frisson of annoyance skips over me. “Hello, Léon.” I deliberately refuse to match his formal style of greeting. “Are you well?” I clearly remember the trauma he felt after the massacre at the Champs de Mars, and have been worrying for him.
“Quite, thank you. Are you looking for a watch?”
“No. I came to see you.”
A flare of intrigue gleams in his eyes, but he watches me silently, waiting for elaboration. The intensity of it makes me uncomfortable, longing desperately for our previous close relationship, and I speak too quickly as consequence.
“I have a message for you, from Robespierre.” Rambling, I pass along all of the information, including the loaned book. “I was surprised to hear you borrowed a copy of Rousseau from him. I thought you had your own.”
“He’d written his own notes in the margins. I wanted to read his interpretations.”
“Oh.” The word hangs. “I wasn’t aware you knew him so well.”
“We’ve met at Café du Foy a few more times.” His shoulder twitches in a casual shrug, which irritates me. It feels like he is dismissing me.
“You must not be too well acquainted. He addressed me as your fiancée.” Seeing the flicker of vulnerability crack across his stern expression gives me a perverse sort of satisfaction, though I’m not proud of it. At least I’m not the only one hurting here.
“We don’t speak much of our personal lives,” he says stiffly. “I haven’t seen him in a long while. No wonder he’s anxious for the return of his book.”
“You must be very busy,” I say. “With the national guard duties and your apprenticeship combined.”
“I completed my apprenticeship, actually.” For the first time he sounds natural, and proud, too. “Monsieur Renard agreed to let me stay on here for a while to increase my savings. We’re doing a brisk trade in watches with tricolor designs on the face.”
“That was your idea, wasn’t it?” I say, delighted. “I’m so glad to hear they are a success.”
“Thank you. I’m allowed an extra percentage of all profits on those watches, since I designed them. With my duties in the national guard three days a week, I hardly have time to spend any of the money, so it’s a help to my savings.” He hesitates. “I want to set up my own shop.”
“I know.” Sadness settles over me. His plan hasn’t changed. If we were still a couple, we’d live together now, pooling our savings to open the shop. I could be sewing dresses of my own design while he fabricated new watches or repaired old ones. How things have gone wrong.
“And you? Are you designing fashions, like you always wanted?”
“No,” I admit reluctantly.
“You should. Not for royalty anymore. That’s over. But practical clothing, while still fashionable—that will always be needed.”
“I miss you, Léon.” As soon as the words escape my lips, I wish I could take them back and choke on them. I hadn’t meant to bare my emotions before him.
He looks down, and his throat ripples as he swallows. When he meets my eyes again, his expression is guarded once more. “I miss the way we were. I wish it wasn’t lost.”
“Will you ever forgive me?” The words whisper across my lips, which feel as dry as parchment.
He stares into me. “I don’t know.”
“Can we at least be friends?”
“I don’t think so.”
I grit my teeth to hide the sudden tremble in my lips. “Congratulations again on your success.” Turning on my heel, I reach for the doorknob. The bell clangs as I toss the door closed, and I fancy for a second that I hear my name. I don’t look back, though. It seems unlikely that Léon truly called out to me, and I can’t embarrass myself further by looking back to see proof of it.
* * *
In April, Geneviève comes to see me at home, a rarity, for we usually just walk around, talking.
“Things are looking up,” she says, spreading a pale blue skirt over her lap and picking up her embroidery needle.
“I wouldn’t say that. There have been food riots for the last three months, and they say Austria will declare war on France any day.”
“True, but these problems were caused by poor leadership, and the king has formed a new government. Most of the ministers are Jacobins, so that ought to push things in the right direction.”
“I hope so.” It seems
heartening news. “If the revolutionary and royalist factions can begin to work together, perhaps it will make improvements. Assuming they can agree on anything, that is.”
“As long as the royalists don’t have too much sway over the decisions,” she temporizes. “Did you hear about the new manner of executions? That contraption called a guillotine?”
“Yes, a highwayman was executed that way, I heard.”
“What a strange idea,” muses Geneviève. “An invention to slice off a person’s head as efficiently as possible. They say it’s painless, over in the blink of an eye.”
“How could anyone know that without experiencing it?”
“Doctors know these things,” says Geneviève confidently. “It’s supposed to be the most humane method of carrying out the death penalty.”
“Apparently they catch the head in a little basket.” I wrinkle my nose. “A rather gruesome idea.”
“Better than letting it roll around the ground like a chicken’s.” Geneviève snorts. “Oh drat, I ruined that stitch. I’ll have to pull it out, or the butterfly I’m embroidering will be crooked.” She lifts the cloth close to her face. “Have you gone to see Léon again yet?”
“You know I haven’t,” I say resentfully. “Hiding behind your sewing so you cannot see my annoyance doesn’t mean it isn’t there, you know.”
She drops the material into her lap. “You should. I remember it didn’t go well last time, at least according to you, but I still think it sounds like he misses you. Besides, I happen to know from Étienne that he never pays any attention to other girls. He’s utterly thrown himself into his work. Étienne says he’s grown quite dull. I think he means lovesick. Men never know the right words.”
“There is a rather significant difference between the two.” My voice sounds tart.
“You won’t know until you find out, will you?” Geneviève is never fazed by my sharpest responses.
* * *
In May the leaves are out on the trees, bathing the streets in gold-green light, an appearance far more soothing than the political situation. Whether by the advice of his Jacobin ministers or not, the king declared war on Austria. They say he stood before the Legislative Assembly with an expression of rather vacant sadness, and made the declaration in the same flat tone he might have used for announcing the time of a meal to be served.
So far the state of war hasn’t changed much of daily life, but I fret over the idea that the national guard will be sent to meet the Austrian armies, and Léon will have to go with them.
There’s little I can do, though, so I focus on keeping my hands busy, sewing, and even making a few of my own designs. When I am not sewing, I read or help Maman with the household chores. I’m arranging flowers in a vase to brighten the parlor when I hear a knock at the door. Expecting canvassers for the poor, I go to open it. Maman and Papa have gone out, and no one has been invited to visit.
To my astonishment, Madame Campan shuffles awkwardly on the step, her usually serene countenance marred by an uncomfortable frown. Her hands twitch inside the fur muff she carries. “Hello, Giselle. May I come in?”
“What brings you here, Madame?” I don’t think I quite hide my surprise, but I open the door wider and move aside to let her cross the threshold.
“I merely wanted to call on you. We were sorry you declined to return to the queen’s household.”
By “we,” I surmise she means to include the queen herself, for I had no other close friends there besides Geneviève.
“I was grateful for the invitation but not inclined to take up my old post.”
“May I sit down?” she asks. “It was a long walk here. My legs aren’t accustomed to such a long journey.”
She doesn’t seem out of breath, but I lead her to the parlor and direct her to the best chair, near the window.
“Thank you, Giselle.” She folds her hands in her lap. “Are you certain you won’t reconsider? You’re still welcome in Her Majesty’s household.”
“Thank you, but I’m unlikely to change my mind.”
“The queen’s household is not what it used to be, I’m afraid,” says Madame Campan, as if I had asked for details. “So many people absent, and she dares not appoint new people, lest the old household become obsolete. The court rituals are falling by the wayside. It’s a sad thing. Not everyone understands, of course; they never do perceive the intricacies of Her Majesty’s life. Many of the remaining court ladies sulk because they haven’t been appointed into the empty roles in the queen’s household, but how could they be? Others may return.”
“Is that likely?” I ask, rather gratified to hear I am not the only one who did not return after Varennes.
“Perhaps. The Princesse de Lamballe returned. She fled after Varennes, being fearful for her safety, but she obeyed the queen’s summons to return to Paris. They always were dear friends. She brought a dog for the queen, a little red-and-white spaniel. The queen calls it Mignon.” Madame Campan pauses and watches for my reaction.
Still rather startled by her presence, and by her verbosity, I find it difficult to think of a reply. “She is very fond of her pets,” I say neutrally, remembering the cats and dogs that lived at Versailles.
“Yes, more so now than ever. She takes comfort in them, I believe.” She leans forward confidentially. “The queen is so lonely and so fearful. The princesse almost didn’t return, because after Madame invited her back, she changed her mind and wrote a letter, begging her to stay away from the ‘mouth of the tiger’ here in Paris, where there are so many worries for her and the children. I was quite glad when the princesse eventually agreed to come back to Paris anyway. It’s been good for the queen to have a friend with her again.”
“She’s fortunate to have you.”
“How kind of you to say, my dear. I’ve missed you, Giselle. I could always count on you. Are you certain you won’t come back?”
“I prefer a quiet life these days.”
“Ah, but you’re so young. Not like the queen … Her hair has turned white these last months, transformed by sorrow and worry.”
Since I recall her hair had been fading and taking on gray threads for months, I find this cause hard to believe, but I cluck sympathetically.
Madame Campan seizes on this speck of empathy. “I hoped you would understand. The queen liked you, and that means something. She didn’t get to know most of her tirewomen very well, not when there were so many people at court already. But she noticed you.”
Restlessly, I stand and pace in front of Madame Campan’s chair. It’s my own house, so she can’t chastise me for rudeness. “Why are you telling me all of this?”
“Because we want you to come back to the Tuileries,” she says baldly. “I can offer you a greater salary than previously, and a bonus for each month that you stay on.”
“Have things grown so desperate at court, then?” A sardonic tone creeps into my voice.
Madame Campan meets my eyes, her expression serious and serene. “Yes. Please reconsider. You have plans to marry, don’t you? You could undoubtedly use the extra money for your trousseau.”
I don’t bother correcting her about my marriage. It’s true the income could be useful. My parents have always been reasonably well off, but the rising food prices are taking a toll, and Papa spends longer going over the account books than he used to, hunched over with frown lines on his face. He always tells me not to worry, and I have offered to work as a seamstress, but so far he has always turned down the suggestion.
“You have my interest,” I say, careful to keep my tone flat, to disguise my thoughts. “But I still don’t understand why you want me. I’m a good tirewoman, but not extraordinary. I know that.”
“You are loyal, and that is a great virtue in these turbulent times.”
“I have revolutionary friends and family members,” I say. I almost want to tell her that I spied on them all for months and no one suspected, but I bite my tongue. “I understand their cause.”
Her
mouth twitches. “That may be so, but you also risked yourself to help the queen. Your actions have well proved your loyalty. Even if you have doubts about the monarchy, it’s still more than can be found among most qualified ladies nowadays. Also, you’re observant, and the queen is surrounded by enemies. You are needed, Giselle. Please come back.”
I tell myself the money is the lure, not that I’m growing bored with reading philosophy and sitting at home. That I’m curious to see the changes wrought at court after the disaster of Varennes, not that there’s a slim chance that Léon may think I have resumed my spy work and be more inclined to forgive me. I know it’s a lie. Even crumbling, court is still alluring. “How much of a monthly bonus?” I ask.
* * *
A week later I return to Tuileries, resuming my old position as one of the queen’s wardrobe women, although with a few more privileges and better wages. My parents weren’t enthusiastic at first, but the new salary impressed them. Before going, I tell Geneviève I need the money, which is true, but also that I want to help the revolution from the inside. She believes me with ease—after all, she did it—but tells me that the queen has ceased to matter, and it would hardly be worth it. I suspect she’s right.
Chapter Nineteen
JUNE TO AUGUST 1792
In the streets and corners, people whisper that the queen has grown so hated that she’d be ripped apart if sent alone into the Legislative Assembly, and she looks as if she knows it. As Madame Campan described, Marie Antoinette’s hair is quite white now, as wispy and pale as summer clouds. The color isn’t shocking, for she used to powder her hair liberally, but the thin, dry quality of it is. She dresses it more simply than she used to, and it ages her.
So, too, does her new posture. Not as ramrod straight as previously, her shoulders hunch forward protectively, and she has picked up a habit of glancing around her, eyes flicking nervously. Her smile is still charming, though, on the rare occasions she finds it. She greets me very elegantly, and with apparently genuine warmth.
The Wardrobe Mistress Page 21
