Ribbons of Scarlet

by Kate Quinn

  It was a glorious time to be alive. Or so said the Marquise de Condorcet yesterday when I’d finished my lessons at her school. A sharp retort had sprung to my lips, but I’d clamped them shut, knowing she meant well in spite of her rank. But what did nobles know?

  It was always a glorious time to be alive for them.

  Change, many said, was on the wind. This was the reason for the Marquise de Condorcet’s optimism. But I had my own opinion. Nothing had changed in hundreds of years, and this country was no America. It was a waste of breath to pretend otherwise.

  “The nobility,” I grumbled, wiping my nose on my sleeve. To say I had conflicted feelings about them would be like saying the queen bought an occasional trinket.

  I had followed Maman’s advice all my life: do as the nobility asks and your belly will always be full. But she had lied, God rest her soul. Sometimes, doing all that was asked of me wasn’t enough. Sometimes, I was knocked about, or went home empty-handed at their whim. Those days reminded me where I ranked in this world: among the lowly selling fruit to survive, or playing courier for noblemen and salonnières day after day. All for a little coin that disappeared into the landlord’s purse. On a good day, someone like the Marquise de Condorcet paid me well, even smiled and offered a kind word or two. Those days kept me coming back for more, like a rat to a crumb of bread.

  My stomach growled in accordance with my thoughts. Bread, fresh hot bread. Manna from heaven, if any could be found in the city. I groaned, a hand pressing at my midsection, hollow after a long day of eating only a potato. Thankfully, tonight’s errand would pay well so I might afford something more.

  For I was on an errand for Monsieur Maillard, a notary clerk and brother of the master bailiff in Paris known to support the Revolution, who had hired me to find the chocolatier Pauline Léon. More and more, he’d taken to speaking on behalf of the people. He spoke with passion, and the people listened to him, so I’d agreed to undertake the task instantly. I’d also undertaken the task of reading the note—now that I’d learned to read. Something about a meeting with the Duc d’Orleans, a meddling nobleman who liked to pretend he was one of us. I didn’t trust the oily duc and his weak chin.

  I stepped from the shadows and took a chance, dashing between a carriage and a cart bumping over the cobbles.

  Luckily, I knew Pauline slightly, as the Marquise de Condorcet once took me to her shop, La Maison du Chocolat Léon, to sip cups of warmed chocolate. I’d also seen Pauline buzz about the grounds of the Palais-Royal like a worker bee, where the wealthy and wicked spent their livres shopping and gambling, or on whores and fortune-tellers; and more recently, where the dissatisfied went to bark at the crowd and whip everyone into a frenzy. These days that made it the best location to sell fruit—and the perfect place to keep abreast of the news from Versailles.

  I slipped inside the bustling chocolatier and noticed the usual mix of patrons: merchants, barristers, soldiers, a handful from high society, and even a few women. More and more often, members of all classes mixed in the taverns and cafés of Paris. They liked to play friends with one another while they spouted their nonsense about the king. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at their stupidity. It was nothing but a fantasy to pretend we were all equals, to pretend something might change.

  Pauline rushed to and fro, delivering cups and whisking away dirty saucers, all the while slipping coins into the pocket of her apron and smiling at patrons. I headed in her direction.

  “Mademoiselle, I have a note for you.” I held out the creamy envelope.

  She snatched it from my hand without a word and tucked it inside her apron.

  “You’re welcome,” I said, sliding a chair out and plopping into it. “Ah, that’s nice. My poor feet ache. Can you bring me a chocolat chaud?”

  “Pas ce soir,” Pauline said through tense lips. When I stared back at her in surprise, she bent closer to the table and said, “You need to leave. Your . . .”—she winced—“odor is offending my guests.”

  I glanced at the tables nearest me. One man scooted his chair as far away as possible. Another regarded me through narrowed eyes, his mouth pinched. It took a lot to embarrass me and my thick skull, but heat flared in my cheeks. Did I smell that horribly? It had been a searing hot day, the kind where exposed skin burned quickly and moisture clung to your dress. I’d spent most of it running messages all over Paris. Apparently, I needed to wash tonight.

  To salvage what little pride I still had, I stood to go. But before I could stop my dagger-tipped tongue, I said, “You don’t look like an aristocrat, Pauline, but you sure do put on the airs of one. Maybe a little powder for your complexion and a rod up your backside will complete the charade.”

  Pauline’s face darkened. “I’ll thank you to leave my café—now. Before I toss you out on your hind end.”

  I bit down on my bottom lip to suppress a laugh. That was another thing Maman had lied about: my wit did not always serve me well. At least half the time my mouth got me into more trouble than a good teasing was worth, especially with my five brothers, who loved nothing more than to give me a good knock on the arm. I shrugged and headed toward the door.

  At that moment, a man barged into the café, his breath ragged. He leapt onto a chair and shouted above the patrons, “The king has joined the First and Second Estates with our National Assembly. We have a voice in our government, at last!”

  Cheers erupted, drowning out the remainder of the man’s speech. Not even my typical cynicism dampened the excitement suddenly churning in my belly. If what the man said was true, we now had a merging of royalty, clergy, and the common man into one. We were no longer a country divided.

  When all had quieted once more, he tried again. “The king promises to change our taxation laws, and abolish the letters de cachet. We’ll have no more directives from the king without consensus! Vive le roi!”

  The cheering arose again, and for the very first time, my heart swelled with the urge to believe things really could be different. Chairs scraped over tile and the clatter of spoons tossed on a forgotten dish filled the room as customers stood to beat each other on their backs in happy gratitude.

  “Friends, come, celebrate at the Palais-Royal tonight! Vive le roi!” the man said and jumped to the ground.

  Laughing and cheering, and some even crying, everyone poured into the lamp-lit street. Like a legend of old, we all knew how the deputies from the Third Estate, the representatives of the common people, had gathered inside the tennis court, prepared to face bayonets of the Swiss Guard if necessary in the name of forming a new government. When the news of their courageous stand arrived in Paris, joy had seized the city. And now this—the National Assembly represented a united France. As was my nature, I couldn’t help but wonder if the Assembly would hold, or if its power and influence would shift with the king’s mood.

  Still, the streets were alive with celebration, and seeing the jubilation of my countrymen, I had to admit that perhaps my cynicism had been misplaced. Perhaps all the Marquise de Condorcet believed would come to pass. My mind reeled with how those changes might affect me; no more hunger, a safer home, perhaps even different work.

  The sound of explosions echoed off the buildings, and a sudden burst of light in the night sky elicited cheers from citizens rushing to see the display. My breath caught as I tilted my face upward. Fireworks flowered over the Palais-Royal. On my right, I caught sight of Pauline.

  When she noticed me, her eyes narrowed. “Don’t ever use that filthy word around me again, or you’ll regret it.”

  “Aristocrat?” I asked innocently, unable to resist goading her.

  She eyed me coolly. “I lost friends in the bread riots, executed by the king’s men. You can be certain I don’t consider our monarch, or the nobility, my ally.”

  And I had lost a mother under the boot of a vicomte who’d had one too many glasses of brandy in the household where she worked as cook, and after, my dearest friend, Marion, to an overeager baron at the brothel where
she once lived. Wretched memories that I would never forget—or forgive. Yet I knew better than to fight those who paid my wages. I needed to eat, after all.

  Still, I felt a stirring in my breast as the fireworks glittered like jewels against the black night. In truth, I needed something to believe in. I might laugh at life’s difficulties in public, but privately I sank into more darkness than I dared admit, even to myself. It was dangerous there, in that place.

  “Mademoiselle Léon.” I held up my hands in surrender. “Am I forgiven? Let us be friends.”

  Her dark eyebrows arched in surprise. “Was that an apology?”

  “Something like that.” I grinned. “Call me Louise.”

  After a moment of studying my face, she nodded. “All right, Louise.” She paused a beat and motioned overhead. “Look at these stupid men, celebrating as if anything has changed.”

  “We’ll see, won’t we?” I noticed the twist of her lips as if she’d eaten something sour. Her cynicism put a damper on the hope I’d just begun to feel, and maybe she had the right of it. I quickly added, “They sit around and talk, those deputies, and we’re supposed to act as if it’s the second coming of Christ.”

  Pauline snorted in laughter, and then her face grew serious. “Well, we should see what’s happening at the Palais-Royal at least, shouldn’t we?” I nodded. “And Louise?”

  “Mmm?”

  “I meant what I said—you really stink.”

  I howled with laughter and followed Pauline Léon to the Palais-Royal.

  * * *

  Paris, July 12, 1789

  A fortnight later, nothing had changed, in spite of our National Assembly. My doubt redoubled, and for a moment, I pitied the fools who believed this new government could bring anything meaningful to our lives.

  I peered from behind my fruit cart across the gardens of the Palais-Royal. Sunlight filtered through the chestnut trees, marbling the ground beneath them with dappled gold. A hot breeze rustled my skirts and lifted the hair off the back of my neck. Patrons roamed in and out of the boutiques, arm in arm with smiles on their faces, or perched on a bench in the courtyard of one of the most famous marketplaces in Paris. Just another summer day, and all seemed glorious. All but the odor of the damned chrysanthemums. Why the fleuriste felt it necessary to park his cart next to our fruit and vegetable stand each day confounded me. We weren’t nice to him, my friend Jeanne or I; well, I wasn’t nice to him, and I didn’t like the way his flowers reminded me of death.

  We needed no reminders of death, as so many continued to starve. The tension I’d felt off and on all morning reasserted itself.

  A laughing couple started toward me, and I adjusted my scowl into a faux smile.

  The young woman was another of those customers—a proper lady in sky blue silk and pearls, ruffled skirts with immense petticoats, and an elegant gentleman at her side. His tricorn hat looked as if it had never been worn. They sorted through apples and pears and stroked the fuzz of a plump peach before deciding on the two largest apples in the barrel.

  “Thank you for your patronage,” I said, closing my fist around the coins the man dropped into my palm, making an effort not to touch me as he did. I pretended not to notice and bumped his hand with my own.

  He jerked away and examined his glove, lips pinched in disgust.

  Through a wide smile I said, “Good day, monsieur.”

  They turned abruptly, swept across the gardens to a waiting coach, and climbed inside. The woman looked past me as the carriage trundled away.

  If I had my choice, I’d avoid her type like a case of the pox; she in her feathered hat as fat as a hen on her head, clucking and tutting her disapproval, all the while flaunting her pretty manners. They never looked you in the eye. I sighed. But a customer was a customer, and I needed the sous in a desperate way.

  I shuffled pieces of fruit around to make it look like I had more in my cart. Of course the couple had reached for the biggest apples they could find. Bigger and more meant better in their eyes. A dim-witted choice, to be sure. The smaller fruits packed the sweetest punch, didn’t they know? But it was just as well. I’d save the best fruit for those who deserved it: the hardworking carpenters, peddlers, laundresses, fishmongers, and poor mothers who struggled to feed their families at all. We all worked like the devil to survive.

  I groaned. My stomach felt like it would eat itself, the pangs had grown so bad. I plucked a Mirabelle plum from the pile and bit into its golden flesh. That would come out of my meager sales today, but it was worth it. Three days without bread, a week without meat, and what little cheese I’d come across I’d given to the street rags. I couldn’t watch a child go hungry. But with only soured wine and fruit for days, my head felt light as a feather, especially in this suffocating heat. Tonight I’d have to eat something of substance, even if I had to beg for it.

  Jeanne, the vendor with whom I shared a cart, snapped the roots off her lingering potato stock. She was having trouble selling too. Perhaps our customers were standing in the growing breadlines, waiting for their share. We’d all believed, come summer, the wheat stores would be stocked and the price of bread would fall to normal and be plentiful again.

  We hadn’t dreamed the nobility would be cruel enough to hoard their crop. We were wrong.

  Across the garden, I spotted a familiar figure. Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe, famed salonnière and courtesan, was so graceful she appeared to float over the path. She wore gold brocade and carried a dainty handbag over her left arm, and on her right, an acquaintance joined her in a promenade. I’d delivered many messages for Madame, running my derrière ragged to please her. She had recommended my services to others, always had a kind word for me, and paid me better than most. I was grateful for her trust. I wondered, briefly, what scrap of gossip held her attention as she appeared deep in conversation.

  Just then, a garçon strolled in front of my cart, his trousers tattered at the bottom, his face black with grime. I knew that face all too well. “Don’t you—”

  In a flash, the little thief snatched an apple, turned on his heel, and ran.

  “You’d better pay for that!” I shouted. To Jeanne, I said, “Watch the cart, will you? I’ll be back.”

  I raced after the boy, winding around manicured hedges and pushing through a group of men in heated discussion.

  “Attention, mademoiselle!” a man called after me.

  I skidded on a patch of slick cobbles bathed in liquids I dared not examine too closely. Stumbling slightly, I pitched forward but managed to regain my footing. “Christ!”

  A puppeteer chuckled and pointed after the boy. “Better move. He’s a fast one!”

  “He’s mine this time!” I picked up my pace, ducking beneath a bolt of fabric outside the tailor’s shop that billowed in the breeze.

  The boy threw a look over his shoulder—and nearly slammed into a woman browsing an array of pungent cheeses.

  I lunged for him, grasping at threads unraveling on the edges of his coat. “That’s one too many times, you rat!”

  “Sorry, ma’moiselle, got to eat.” He leapt over a puddle, ducked under the boughs of a tree, and sprinted toward the shops.

  Apparently, the little rodent didn’t know I’d have no qualms about whacking him on the skull the minute I caught him, inside a fancy boutique or not.

  He barreled toward the gleaming window of one of the city’s finest chocolatiers. Surely the shopkeeper would turn him away. They weren’t the type to offer handouts. If so, I wanted my own bonbons. Seemed only fair.

  The boy reached for the latch, and the doorbell tinkled as he slipped inside. I dashed inside after him—and inhaled a sharp breath.

  The store gleamed. Boxes in blue, lemon yellow, and powder pink sat on the shelves, ready to be filled with confections and tied with gold ribbon. Black and white tiles fanned across the floor in a dizzying maze, and a wide brass chandelier hung from the ceiling. A case of glistening confections stretched one whole wall, gold-dusted, glazed, dipped, a
nd swirled, and some that had been painted prettily with tiny brushes. My head dizzied at the sight, or maybe it was the smell. Sugared cherries and vanilla, and the earthy aroma of chocolat chaud wafted on the air. For an instant, I contrasted Pauline’s simple café with the luxury of this one, clearly designed to attract a certain kind of patron, and saw in the comparison just how vast the gulf was between our classes. I wondered, though, was the warmed chocolate really that much better when served in fancy cups? My stomach growled, eager to make the comparison.

  “Mademoiselle Audu, bonjour.” The Marquise de Condorcet stood at the counter tucking a box of treats into her basket. “What good fortune, I did not have to seek you out. We will not be having class this afternoon.”

  The Marquise de Condorcet was a true lady, kind and generous through and through. I’d spent many a day learning to read in the free school she and her husband ran in a building just across from the Palais-Royal. She wasn’t like other nobles—at least not much like them—and I owed her more than I could ever repay whether I wanted to admit it or not.

  “All right,” I said distractedly and leaned over the counter to look behind it. My breath still came in hot bursts. “Where did the boy get off to?”

  “You wouldn’t mean this young man?” The marquise stepped forward to show the filthy boy, eleven or twelve in age, hiding behind her. In his hand, he clutched my fruit, already half-eaten. The marquise wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “This is Pierre Simare. He was one of my fledglings but we were forced to let him go.” Fleetingly, as if even she was not aware of it, the noblewoman smoothed a palm over her abdomen in the way of expectant mothers, then gave the boy the basket. “Here you are, mon cheri. Come to me next time, if you are hungry.”