by Kate Quinn
He roared with laughter as he disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a steaming bowl of stew. “Here you are.”
I inhaled the stew’s hearty aroma before hunching over it and tucking in. Within seconds, I devoured the greasy meat, softened potatoes, and few stray carrots floating in the broth.
Charlie poured a glass of claret and pushed it toward me. “You were hungry.”
“I’m always hungry. Got a hole in my stomach.” I sipped the wine gratefully.
The noise in the room escalated as more patrons poured in from the street, and the wine flowed freely. I chased the last carrot that seemed intent on avoiding my spoon and finally scooped it into my mouth. Behind me, a pair of passionate voices drifted from the common table. I threw a glance over my shoulder, making eye contact with a large man who spilled over the edges of his trousers.
He removed his tricorn hat and winked at me. I turned quickly, not wanting to encourage him, but bent an ear to their conversation in a not-so-subtle way.
“The king is no fool,” the man continued. “He must see what’s at stake.”
“But he has yet to support the Declaration,” said another.
I perked up at the mention of the Declaration. It was all anyone had talked about for weeks at the Palais-Royal.
“We’ve just upended the king’s world. Asked him to change the way he’s been taught since birth, and to disrupt centuries of tradition. Give him time.”
I sneaked another look over my shoulder.
“I don’t think time will make a difference,” a third man added, his eyes darkening beneath a shock of unruly wavy hair. “We’re demanding he surrender much of his power. What man would do so willingly?”
Several shouted their agreement and another round of ale was poured.
“I hope the king might still see reason.” The fat man who first winked at me swirled the contents of his glass and tipped it back.
“Not if that Austrian bitch has her say.” A fourth joined them, pulling out a chair. He was a monster of a man with a towering frame and a face that looked like chewed leather. “She’ll talk him out of it.” He pulled the woman who had followed him onto his lap. She giggled and the capped sleeves of her dress slipped far lower than was modest. Rouge smeared her cheeks and lips. The man planted a kiss on her breast that bulged above her bodice. She giggled again and put her hand on his massive chest.
“Don’t ruin the mood, Danton,” the fat man said to the newcomer. “We’ve lots to hope for.”
“As long as we continue to pressure the Assembly, we might make a new nation,” the man called Danton said, and kissed the whore squarely on the mouth. After, she held his beer glass to his lips and he drank greedily.
“Christ, Danton, can you do that in private?” the dark-eyed man complained.
I turned around to mind my own business. Little did I know how well I would come to know Danton, how often I would see him in the Cordeliers Club and, later, in every newspaper in Paris.
Charlie appeared at my side to collect my saucer. He leaned close enough to my ear to brush it with his lips. “Another claret for a kiss?”
I swatted him again. “Refill my glass and we’ll see.”
He beamed.
“But don’t count on it,” I called after him.
He laughed and filled the glass until it brimmed with burgundy liquid.
I took a deep drink and looked up, catching sight of a familiar face entering the tavern with a bevy of women. Pauline Léon. Frowning, I hopped off my stool and made my way toward her, my mind filled with all the men had said. I wondered what Pauline would say about our Declaration, if she found it as hopeful as the others.
Pauline and her friends snaked through the room to a large table near the back wall. I followed, deciding to make my peace with her once and for all. I had abandoned her at the Bastille and I knew she hadn’t looked kindly on my cowardice. But we were on the same side, the same kind of woman, after all. At least I liked to think so . . . I was in awe of Pauline, truth be told. Though young, she had no doubts as to where her loyalties lay, or which path to follow. She had been so brave, and I found that I wanted to be more like her.
“Mademoiselle Léon, bonsoir,” I said.
“Louise,” she said curtly. “You haven’t come to insult me again, I hope.”
“How can I insult a heroine of the Bastille? You are to be commended.”
She scowled. “I would have been a heroine of the Bastille if anyone had let me. A laundress managed to fight her way in, but I was left at the barricades. Still, the Bastille was a victory, as is our National Guard and our Declaration.”
“Yet the king has done nothing and we’re still hungry.” I shrugged. “What should we expect? This is what happens when we leave the men to handle everything.”
Several of the women laughed.
Pauline’s expression softened into a smile. “Too true.”
“Who are your friends?” I asked.
Pauline introduced each of the women at the table; a group of washerwomen, a seamstress, an actress named Claire Lacombe, and a tutor of the pianoforte. “We’re going to meet here each week in the Cordeliers. Decide how we women might make something of this revolution.”
Instinctively, I felt drawn to Pauline; something about her reminded me of my departed friend, Marion. And somehow, I knew her fight was my own. If I were to become a part of this . . . It now seemed inescapable.
“Are you in need of new members?” I asked.
“We welcome those who are committed to our liberty.”
“Liberty is my favorite word.” I pointed to the new symbol of liberty at my breast; the red and blue of Paris joined in harmony with the white of the Bourbons on a cockade. “How about I keep my mouth closed for a change and just listen.”
“Do you promise?”
I grinned, and Pauline motioned to an empty place at the table, making me feel more welcomed than I’d ever felt anywhere before.
* * *
Paris, September 1789
After a second and third gathering with Pauline’s group at the tavern, I was left with one burning question on my mind: What could we women do in this revolution?
Many feared the Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen focused on men alone, and that women would once again be left out. Several in the group became disorderly as tempers flared at the meetings. But I knew shouting never changed much—action did. And I planned to learn what that action should be.
Until then, I would try to put food on the table. At the close of another long day, I left the Palais-Royal and found my way home. As I approached my door, I spied a man in front, peering down the street as if looking for someone. Though he was dressed in a shabby brocade jacket and culottes, he had the kind of beauty that made you forget your own name. And I knew there could be only one reason this sort of gentleman stood on my doorstep: he needed something.
As I neared him, I felt a vague sense of recognition. Something about his perfectly sculpted face and heart-shaped mouth, his hair . . . Yes, he was a singer or actor that I’d seen at the Palais-Royal. Not a dangerous kind of man. “Monsieur, bonsoir. Are you looking for someone?”
“I am Monsieur Elleviou. A gentleman in search of a Mademoiselle Audu. I have been told she is a courier and understands what it means to be discreet.”
I recognized the name instantly. My gaze traveled to the tips of his thick, brown hair that he had chosen not to stuff beneath a wig. I guessed I wasn’t the only woman who appreciated his choice.
“I’m Mademoiselle Audu.”
“I have a favor to ask. I will pay you, of course.” He presented a small envelope. “It is a letter for Mademoiselle Émilie de Sainte-Amaranthe. She is with her mother entertaining patrons at their salon this evening.”
I knew plenty about Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe and her . . . variety of entertainments, shall we say, as well as the legendary beauty of her daughter. In fact, not only had I delivered many messages for her, but I
had seen the mother-daughter pair perusing the shops at the Palais-Royal again just yesterday with a clutch of admirers trailing behind them like a brood of chicks to their mother hen. Madame hosted one of the most renowned salons in Paris with its gambling tables and wealthy patrons, many of whom graced the courts of the queen. Though gambling was illegal, the law was not enforced and those dumb enough to gamble their wages away were left to their own devices.
The gentleman shifted from one foot to the other and looked over his shoulder twice. He was afraid of being discovered, I realized, and in that, I saw an opportunity. “Why should I help you?”
He stared at me a moment, his expression intense as if he were debating whether or not to spill his secret. At last, he said, “I am in love, mademoiselle, and I must know if she feels the same. I have written her a message to meet me. My name is not on the card, as I fear her mother will try to intervene.”
Without doubt. A social climber like Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe wouldn’t settle for less than a fat old duc for her baby girl. And it amused me to think of how undone she might be to have a mere musician without a pot to piss in for a son-in-law.
Aloud, I said, “So you’re not a duc.”
He laughed. “I am an opera singer. And as you might imagine, since I am neither a man with a title nor a banker or landowner, Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe finds me unsuitable and is steering Émilie toward better prospects. Mademoiselle has many admirers.”
I studied his face. There was something sweet about his demeanor and his perfect diction. He seemed to be a true gentleman. Hell, why not help the lovesick fool? I nodded. “Very well. I’ll help you—for a price.”
“Of course.” He pulled out a change purse. “Would two livres suffice?”
“Is that what your lady love is worth to you?” Haggling was my specialty. At the Palais-Royal they’d say, Guard your britches or mademoiselle will bargain them right off your hind end. That may be true, but I would never admit to this fop that a livre was more money than I had seen in a long time.
He smiled and I felt my resolve melt a little. Émilie was a lucky woman.
“Three livres and I’ll cover the cost of a coach,” he replied.
“Done.”
Along with the money, he gave me a small envelope reeking of parfum.
I didn’t bother to hide my smile. “How will she resist you and that mop of curls? I hope she is swooning in your arms in no time.”
He laughed and tipped his hat. “Merci beaucoup. Now, shall we find a coach for you?”
UNDER AN HOUR later, I stood before Émilie de Sainte-Amaranthe’s door. Suddenly I was aware of my gauche dress and hat, the way my manners had faded in the years since my mother died. In spite of our revolution, I was still a lowly fruit seller, a woman of meager circumstance and position. But that would change, one day, if I had anything to say about it, and Lord knew, I always had something to say.
I shook off my doubt and clutched the knocker, rapping it hard and with assurance.
A towering servant greeted me, gave me one look, and started to close the door. I slipped my foot between door and doorjamb, and it bounced open.
“Excusez-moi!” I huffed, foot throbbing.
The man looked down at me and sniffed. “You, mademoiselle, are not invited.”
The cretin thought he was better than me, and he was nothing but a servant himself, albeit in a luxurious home. I stuck out my chin. “Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe hires me weekly as her courier. I’ve a message for her daughter, and if you don’t let me inside, I know a gendarme or two who will help me.” A lie of the worst kind, but I wasn’t about to return the livres Monsieur Elleviou had given me.
“I will take the message for you,” he said firmly.
I shook my head. “Not a chance. I’ve been paid to deliver it in person and I’m not one to shirk my responsibilities. Now, step aside.”
He crossed his arms over his massive chest and spread his legs wide to block the doorway.
I inhaled a quick breath, winked at the buffoon, and dove between his legs.
He gasped in surprise.
In an instant, I scrambled to my feet and rushed through a gleaming marble foyer. As I reached the salon, I slowed, darting expertly around the crowd, vaguely noting the furniture dressed in pastel brocade and walls lavished in floral silk, the plush of fine Turkish rugs. Everything in the room was positioned just so, even the paintings of terribly important men, who—if I were honest—each looked like a mule’s ass. There was even a print of the king himself.
Two dozen tables were organized around the room, and an elegant bar spanned the back wall. A smoky haze drifted from the pipes of various patrons. Elegant ladies tossed dice as daintily as they could manage while huddled with a male partner or practicing the fine art of conversation. The gentlemen matched the ladies’ elegance in culottes and brass-buttoned coats. A few of the guests stared or gave me a disgusted look, but most didn’t see me at all, as if I were too far beneath them to warrant notice. It seemed they didn’t realize the fall of the Bastille had changed everything, made their lofty ambitions obsolete. They were like fossils in a forgotten world, or children with their fingers in their ears.
A vision of Maman’s bloodied forehead and her resigned expression flashed behind my eyes. Of Marion’s lifeless body while her lover, the baron, looked at her in contempt. Nightmares with which I’d tortured myself since I’d learned of their deaths. A ribbon of danger and something poisonous snaked through my veins and settled upon my chest. I bit my lip hard, eliciting physical pain to make the images fade.
Focusing my gaze ahead, I stalked through the room, glancing from table to table in search of Mademoiselle. Dealers shuffled cards and counted them quickly, patrons sulked or laughed as they gathered the pile of winnings in the center of the table, pulling it toward themselves in glee. Coins, larger bills, and the odd piece of jewelry or the occasional pocket watch gleamed amidst the spoils. Just beyond the next set of tables, I spotted her, Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe, and several paces away stood her daughter, Émilie, locked in a tête-à-tête with another young lady.
I started in her direction when a strong hand clamped on my arm.
“For the last time, you need to leave,” the doorman hissed.
“Unhand me, you con.” I attempted to pry his fingers from my arm.
“Have it your way.” With a frosty glare, he gripped both arms tightly, turned me around, and shoved me toward the door.
I stumbled forward. Acting quickly, I cupped my hands at my mouth and shouted, “Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe!”
The room grew quiet as all paused to see who had the gall to shout and interrupt the festivities. A titter of laughter rippled through the room.
“What in God’s name . . . ?” The lady of the house moved toward me, the violet feather in her hair bobbing with each step. Émilie followed closely at her heels.
When Madame stood before me, I lowered my eyes as Maman had taught me, much as it pained me to do so. “Pardon me for being so vulgar, madame, but your doorman would not let me enter. I have a letter for your daughter.”
Émilie joined us and I stared at her, shocked again by her beauty. Though I’d seen her many times, she always rendered me speechless. Her skin appeared ethereal in its pearlescence, her eyes flashed with humor, and jewels glittered against her creamy décolletage. Her hair sat high on her head in neat piles of curls, adorned with a nest and a tiny red bird, the perfect accent to her rose taffeta gown fitted with lace. Yet in spite of her beauty and the attention she must command, she seemed as serene and graceful as a swan. Émilie wasn’t quite a mirror image of Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe, but there was no question they were mother and daughter. No wonder my eager gentleman thought he must have this creature as his own. I was practically in love with her.
I held out the envelope. “Pardon me, mademoiselle, but I was asked to deliver this to you.”
“Louise, what a pleasant surprise,” Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe said. “Who
has sent the note?”
“A Monsieur Elleviou, madame,” I said, more faithful to my longtime patron than to the young man I had met only once.
Madame’s eyes grew cold. So she knew of the opera singer. I was suddenly glad I had chosen my loyalty to her over Elleviou.
“You know he is just another admirer, Maman,” Émilie said. “C’est tout. I will be tossing this on the fire along with those from the others,” she added lightly, all the while sweeping the envelope into the pocket of her robe à la française. To me, she said, “Mademoiselle, thank you for your service. Would you care for something to eat before you go?”
Madame gave her daughter a stern look before directing her attention at me once more. “I am certain Mademoiselle Audu has things to attend to this evening.”
Émilie frowned. “Mother, she is as thin as a rake, and we have a feast tonight.”
Madame glanced at me again and I lowered my eyes in respect. “Very well. Enjoy a plate before you go, Louise.”
I nodded, gratitude flooding through me. Hunger gnawed at my bones like a rabid dog. It had been days since I’d enjoyed the stew, and all I’d managed were sparse servings of vegetables or fruits to fill the void. “You are very kind.”
Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe’s mouth softened. “We wouldn’t want to send you away hungry.”
I glanced at the doorman again and winked. He glared his disapproval.
“If you will excuse me, my guests await,” Madame said in a breathy voice, and she turned on her heel, leaving a cloud of orange blossom perfume in her wake. As she returned to the salon, the sound of dice cracking over tabletops and conversation drifted through the room.
Émilie touched my hand lightly. “Thank you. It was very kind of you to go to such trouble. You have made my evening a happy one.”
“I am glad of that.” I smiled. Not only was the young woman beautiful, she seemed genuinely amicable and kind as well. Some women had all the luck.