“I don’t think I could sleep.”
“Even if I tired you out first?” His crooked, suggestive smile makes my skin grow warm.
“Maybe then,” I relent. “But it’s the middle of the day.” In our own home, it might not matter. I can hardly wait for when we find a house of our own to live in. We have enough savings, especially if I sell the brooch the queen gave me, but it hasn’t been easy to find a suitable place.
“What about sewing?” he suggests. “I could walk with you to pick out some new fabric, and you could design a new dress. Something that will be all the fashion next year.”
“Your confidence is sky-high, my love. But maybe the fresh air will help.”
As we walk, Léon sighs when he sees a trio of national guards march past us on the other side of the street. “I am thankful that I wasn’t on duty that day,” he says, referring to the violent invasion of Tuileries. “I wish I could leave the national guard.”
“Papa does too, although he’s fortunate enough to be given mostly clerical duties.” Since October of the previous year, all active citizens and male youths over eighteen years of age have been obliged to volunteer.
“I was a fool to join before it was required,” says Léon. “I only did so because I was angry.” Tactfully, he does not explain that his ire was with me for aiding the royalists, but we both know it. “Being in the Guard never was what I expected.”
In the store, I run my fingers over rolls of fabric, scanning the colors. I turn away from the fathomless blues and heated reds. Even snowy white holds little appeal right now, for I feel I’ve seen enough tricolor to ensure it will never be a novel color combination again.
“Which colors have you sold a lot of lately?” I ask the woman working in the shop. “Which pattern is popular these days?”
“Red, white, and blue, of course.” She stares at me as if it was a foolish question.
I suppose it was. “What other patterns have you sold lately? May I see the lists?”
To my surprise, she agrees, passing me a sheaf of paper.
“It’s because of the way you asked,” Léon whispers in my ear. “Without a shade of doubt that she’d refuse, and so she didn’t.”
She’s not very clever, then, but I refrain from replying, afraid she’ll hear me. Instead I scan the list, noticing a large purchase for brown and white sprigged cotton, and white dimity, as well as lace, of the sort that would be used for caps. The order captures my attention because the procurer was Madame Éloffe, who was always hired to remake the queen’s wardrobe. I feel certain that these must have been ordered to provide her with dresses.
I choose something similar, but with pink sprigs instead of brown. As we exit the shop, I notice a man striding toward us down the street, and his face looks familiar.
He seems to recognize me too, slowing his steps, although his expression remains wary, and he doesn’t speak.
I stop and call to him, suddenly remembering where I know him from. “You were in the kitchens at Tuileries, weren’t you?”
“Were you a servant too? You look familiar,” he says
“Yes, I worked with Madame Campan.”
He nods. “I remember her. How did you like her?”
“She’s a very kind lady,” I say honestly.
He jerks his head in a nod again, looking thoughtful. “She isn’t at the Tower—out of a job now, just like you, I reckon.”
“Aren’t you?”
He lowers his voice, beckoning farther away from the bustle of the street. “I’m in the kitchen of the Tower now.”
I can’t tell if he is loyal to the queen or not. “And do you like it?”
He shrugs. “The food is served liberally enough, but there isn’t much else to recommend it. Guards everywhere, and you wouldn’t believe the way they treat the family.”
His words are innocuous enough that I could interpret them gleefully, that the royals are treated badly or sorrowfully. It’s the way he says family, filling the word with importance, that finally tells me that he’s loyal to them.
“Are they all right?” I ask, my voice quieter. Léon squeezes my wrist in warning, but I pat his hand reassuringly.
“As can be expected,” says the man. I remember him better now—his surname is Turgy. “There’s a library there, surprisingly enough. They say it has fifteen hundred books, leftover in a turret room that was the archive for the Knights of Malta, years ago. The king reads one a day, and seems as content as he ever was. The guards are the worst part. One of them likes to blow smoke in the queen’s face, carrying his pipe with him at all times. He loves making the family pass through a low wicker gate, because they must bow their heads before him to do so.”
“How unpleasant.” It’s a vulgar, cheap revenge, but at least they aren’t actually being harmed.
“If you have any news, I could pass it on,” he says, so quietly, I almost don’t hear him. “I’m allowed out three times a week to get supplies. Sometimes I take back information, or messages, too.”
“How are you allowed out without an escort?” asks Léon suspiciously.
“I managed to make everyone believe I’m at the Tower on the order of the Commune,” says Turgy. He looks back to me.
“No messages,” I say. He seems legitimate, but I have nothing to say to Marie Antoinette. Even if I wished to endanger myself again, I’m powerless to help her.
When Léon and I return home, I put aside my sewing long enough to send a note to Madame Campan.
“Is that wise?” asks Léon, fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt.
I put my arms around him. “Madame Campan’s desperate for news of the queen’s well-being. I kept my wording very innocuous, just in case anyone sees the letter. Now it’s her choice to contact Turgy or not. My conscience will be clear, and I’ll be free of obligations.” I don’t dare visit Madame Campan, although I wish I could. If Robespierre’s still watching her, it would only draw unwanted attention to me, and she’d never renounce her loyalty to the queen, no matter how hard I tried to protect her. A short letter will have to suffice.
Léon brushes his lips sweetly across mine. “I’m glad to hear it. It hurts me to see you pulled in two different directions.”
“I didn’t enjoy it either. I won’t repeat the situation.”
* * *
In the new year, the Convention holds a trial for King Louis, officially still known as Citoyen Louis Capet. Referring to him otherwise would be dangerous in the wrong company, although it does happen. I hear whispers about the king, or the queen, sometimes in the marketplace.
“The trial of Citoyen Capet is the embodiment of the opposition between the royalists and the revolutionaries,” says Étienne, topping up his wineglass and passing the bottle around the table. He and Geneviève have invited Léon and me to dine at his house, which she moved into shortly after they married at Christmas.
“I don’t think the trial is in his favor,” says Geneviève thoughtfully.
“The iron chest incident certainly didn’t help him,” I say. In November a locksmith came forward with information about a secret iron chest he’d built. Inside, Louis stored clandestine documents and correspondence with foreign nations, colluding with them to end the revolution. Other high-ranking men had been implicated as well, including Mirabeau, who died a celebrated revolutionary. Posthumously, his reputation has been destroyed by the secret correspondence.
“I read an interesting argument recently,” says Léon. “It said that if we sacrifice one person, such as Citoyen Capet, for the happiness of many, it sets a precedent that could lead to the acceptance of violence as a means to happiness.”
Étienne shrugs. “Capet hasn’t been executed yet, but there’s plenty of violence because of him already. Maybe it would stop if he were gone.”
“But if it doesn’t?” Léon’s eyes glitter with interest. He enjoys philosophical discussion more than Étienne does, I think. “Where would it end, hypothetically?”
“Probab
ly with his wife,” says Étienne. “She has caused rioting and starvation as well.”
“And their children?” I ask in a low voice.
Silence falls around the table until Geneviève clears her throat. “They’re young enough to be raised as true citizens contributing to society.”
When the Convention votes on the matter, a slight majority wins in favor of Louis’s immediate execution. Many members of the Convention allegedly voted for his death, but with conditions and reservations. In order to come to a more forceful decision, the Convention votes again the next day, on a motion to grant Louis a reprieve from execution. Once again, the majority overrules for his death.
“This newspaper has the same account as the last.” Léon tosses it aside in disgust.
“I doubt there are any that could have enough details to satisfy your inquiring mind.” I ruffle his hair as I pass through to the kitchen.
“Étienne will be clamoring to witness the execution. But I’m not sure if we should go.”
“I have no desire to witness it.”
“It would make us look more revolutionary,” says Léon slowly. “Still, it’ll be crowded enough that anyone could be missed in the crowd.”
We’ve both fallen into the protective habit of pretending to be more fervent revolutionaries than we truly are. The revolution has marked both of us. We’ve both faced the crushing terror of riots, and I walked through the carnage of Tuileries. Léon killed a man while on duty with the national guard. The revolution also tore us apart once. We’ve already paid a price for our involvement, and it could have been higher. We’re afraid to risk more.
For the execution of the disgraced and deposed king of France, the guillotine moves from its months’ long fixture at the place du Carrousel to the place de la Révolution. On the twenty-first of January, Citoyen Louis Capet’s head rolls into a basket in front of a large crowd.
Léon and I stay home during the event, in the small apartment we rented for a few months, deciding not to find somewhere more permanent until after we visit Toulouse so I can meet his family. Still, we hear all about it from shop owners, neighbors, newspaper columns, and Geneviève and Étienne, who attended.
“He was surprisingly brave,” says Étienne. “He had an air of dignity and resignation.” He sounds more admiring of Louis now than when the king was alive.
“He was never a coward,” says Geneviève. “Remember how he dealt with the mob during the first invasion of Tuileries, drinking a toast with them? I think he was too accustomed to impassivity to ever feel a strong emotion.”
Étienne snorts in amusement at her observation. “Well, it didn’t last long. He made a speech for his innocence, and I think he’d have said more, but the drums started up while his mouth was still open.”
A flare of indignation leads me to speak without considering the prudence of it. “That’s dreadful. They killed him without letting him finish speaking? He’ll never speak again, and even so, they could not grant him another moment to express his last thoughts?”
Étienne narrows his eyes at me. “We—the people of France—executed him for crimes against the people. It’s perfectly appropriate that we did not allow him more time to spread his poisonous beliefs among the crowd. Even after everything, there are those who believe he was somehow superior, that he deserved to have everything while so many people have almost nothing.” His glare seems to imply that I’m one of them.
“I wasn’t aware you were a member of the court who decided his sentence,” I snap, angry at the way he speaks to me as if I’m an outsider, treating me so rudely—in my own house, no less. “And I speak not as a royalist, but as a person who believes life is important enough that even those who deserve death should be allowed dignity in their final moments. You may call me a humanist.”
Léon leans forward. His lips part slightly, showing his teeth, as he stares at Étienne. In spite of Léon’s lapsing revolutionary ideals, he and Étienne have managed to remain friends thus far. Now I’m not sure how long it can last.
Geneviève smacks her palms on the table. The wine ripples in the glasses. “Giselle is softer-hearted than you, Étienne. I think it makes her very admirable, especially in these violent times.” As Étienne subsides, looking abashed, she turns to me and wrinkles her nose. “It’s just as well you weren’t present, Giselle. I could hardly believe how many people ran up to dip their handkerchiefs in the blood after. A gruesome memento, but if we had known such things would be popular, we could’ve made extra money. Perhaps people would have wanted to collect handkerchiefs that the royal family had blown their noses into, or for bits of hair cleaned out of a brush.” She tilts her head in half-forced amusement, mouth quirking in mild scorn at the idea of collecting such items.
“A wasted opportunity for us,” I say, joking back with her even though my heart isn’t in it.
* * *
I find myself easily distracted and restless at night over the next few months. I throw myself into my sewing during the day, determined to create a repertoire of items to demonstrate my skills and start a new job in a dress shop. After working so hard, I should be ready for sleep, especially after Léon and I go to our shared bed at an early hour, still excited by the novelty of it. During the day, I find myself thinking of Marie Antoinette at unexpected moments, swept with sympathy for her now that she’s a widow and a prisoner with a hopeless future. Sometimes a rose-colored ribbon will remind me of her, or a sleekly ironed fichu will remind me of Madame Campan, and I wonder if she managed to find some peace.
One night, when Léon and I curl our bodies together under the heavy blankets, replete with loving and nestled away from the rainy June night, he clears his throat in the soft way that I’ve come to recognize as a herald that he has something important to say, and he isn’t sure how I’ll respond to it.
“I’ve been thinking about Toulouse,” he says, stroking my hair away from my forehead.
I roll around to face him, nuzzling his neck. His skin tastes a little salty and feels cool against my lips. “About our visit there? I’m excited to meet your family, and to see your dog, Octavia.”
“I have a different idea. Giselle, what if we stayed there for a while?”
“You want to live in Toulouse instead of Paris?”
“I think part of me has always assumed I’d return there someday. But it’s not my main reason for suggesting it. I just think Paris isn’t good for us any longer.” He bends his face to peer into mine earnestly. His nose brushes against mine. “So much has happened to us here. Dangerous things. Dark things. I know it was hard for you when Louis was executed.… They say that Marie Antoinette will be next. How much harder will it be for you if that happens?”
“There won’t be anything I can do to prevent it, so I suppose I’ll manage.” The hesitancy in my tone doesn’t quite fit with the practical words.
Hearing it, Léon plays with my hair again, twirling the ends gently between his fingers. “In Paris you’ll have to hear all about it, see mementos … perhaps even see it. It won’t be easy, but it may be easier if we’re farther away.” His lips skim across my cheek. “You’ve been torn between two loyalties long enough, and I don’t want to see it hurt you again.”
I tilt my head up, seeking his mouth with my own, touched by his thoughtfulness. It never occurred to me we might leave Paris for good, or at least years, and I find that the idea holds more appeal than I would have expected. We might have more luck with his watchmaking business, and my dressmaking trade, in a less turbulent city. All of France is affected by the revolution, but we live in the bloodiest heart of it. After all that has happened, sometimes I peek over my shoulder as I walk, fearing people will point fingers at me, shouting that I’m the queen’s lady.…
“Do you mind? You were so proud to come to Paris on your own, to build your fortune here. It’s not only because of my mistakes that you want to leave?”
“No.” He squeezes my hand for emphasis. “I don’t mind. It will be easier fo
r me to leave Paris than you; I have no family here. But if you’re willing, I think we can be very happy.” His hand slides down past the slope of my breast, stroking my stomach. “We’ll build our life in Toulouse, maybe start the family we’ve dreamed about. As long as we are together, I think we can do anything.”
“Just the two of us,” I murmur. “Making the life we want for ourselves.” I picture it in my mind, Léon and I setting up business together, raising children who have his eyes and my hair. Imagining it makes me happy. I no longer have grand dreams of designing dresses for nobility, or being embroiled in court politics. I only want a peaceful life with my husband.
Chapter Twenty-four
JUNE TO OCTOBER 1793
Léon writes to his parents to let them know of our plan, and to enlist their assistance in helping us find a place to live. We intend to travel to Toulouse in January, after spending Christmas in Paris with my family. I’ll miss them dreadfully, but I still look forward to the future.
“It’s warmer there,” Léon tells me. “In the summer, we can walk in lavender fields. I loved to do that. I missed it very much during my first year here.”
“It sounds lovely,” I say, imagining the sight of rows of purple flowers under a bright summer sky, and how heady the scent of the lavender must be, perfuming the air for miles around.
I spend more time with my parents, taking advantage of the time remaining in Paris. At first Maman resisted our decision, but Papa reminded her the world is larger than Paris. The distance is a sorrow for me, too, but I know leaving Paris is the right choice.
The revolution doesn’t rest in the summer, during which time many new laws are passed. Due to the scarcity of resources, hoarding is declared a crime. Léon and I have little enough to fear from this law, but I wonder if my uncle may be hiding some of his resources, particularly his wine cellar. As well, a new national standard of measurement called the metric is introduced, and supposed to have greater accuracy. In July, Marat is killed in the bath by a woman called Charlotte Corday. For weeks afterward, one can hardly leave the house without hearing lurid details of the murder. Having a poor opinion of Marat, I can’t say I mourn him. This isn’t an opinion I speak outside of the house, though, for his death renders him a kind of revolutionary martyr, and he’s better liked in death than he ever was in life.
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