She felt his pain like a physical thing. “He wanted you to be someone else, an aristocrat.”
“He must have loved my mother. But then,” he said, despair etching his words, “why has he done this to me? He says I’m a Frenchman. The court at Versailles says I’m Indian. Why is it either/or? Can I not be both?”
“You are both. If we aren’t free to be who we wish to be, what else is there?”
“And yet, here we are.”
“You say it as if we’re both trapped, that we will never break free.” Trapped, free—what did it matter if there were still secrets between them? “Tell me,” she said, “what did your parents wish you to do when they sent you to court, these past weeks? Was it connected to the money for the balloon?”
Lazare flinched, as if she’d hit him. “Rosier told you?”
“He told me only that you were distraught, and that you’d refused your parents’ money. That was why I came.”
“They intended to be generous, but they had so many conditions.” His voice was hollow. “They wished me first to meet a girl, here at Versailles. If I liked her, they told me, they would arrange a marriage. But I never intended—”
“The daughter of the Comte de Chîmes?” It hurt more than she thought it would to speak of the pretty girl with the white-blond hair. “She was in your box at the opera, surely you considered it—”
“Is that what you think of me?” Lazare asked, bewildered. “Have I not done everything in my power to show you how I feel about you—all the while keeping your secret, for as long as you wished it? Yes, I sat with her in my parents’ box, danced with her at the masquerade, but only to satisfy them. To buy myself time before I lied to my parents and told them I’d tried, but I could never marry her. Because I loved someone else.”
Camille’s breathing was shallow, too fast. She reached out, grasped the trunk of one of the orange trees. Pinpricks of darkness flickered at the edges of her sight. She felt close to fainting. She had been so utterly wrong.
“Who did you think I was, Camille? I refused my parents’ money because I didn’t want to be beholden to them in any way. You’re just like these courtiers—believing in gossip and appearances when you might have asked me. You might have told me the truth.”
“I wanted to, tonight. I wish I had done it before.”
His fierce gaze roamed her face, caressing her cheeks, her chin, and dropping dangerously to her lips. In the darkness, his eyes were deep pools. More than anything, she wanted to kiss him. To put all of this confusion and hurt away, into a box they would never open again. To start anew.
She took a step closer, so close she heard the intake of his breath, felt the heat rise off his skin.
He drew her nearer, dwindling the space between them. “This is what we should have been doing all the while, don’t you agree?”
“I do.” She tilted her face up to his. That mouth.
“Camille,” he said, tenderly tracing the line of her jaw. “After all this time, all this wondering, it is really you, isn’t it?”
She saw herself reflected in his eyes, the gleam of starlight in them. He bent his head to her. Reaching up to touch him, her fingers grazed his hip—and the wide sash from which his sword’s scabbard hung.
The duel.
“Lazare?”
Taking her hand, he turned it over and kissed her palm.
His touch sent shivers along her skin. “Please, listen—do not fight the Vicomte de Séguin.”
Lazare let go of her hand. His face was suddenly, frighteningly closed. “Do not ask that of me.”
“He’s a dangerous magician. He’s been blackmailing Chandon, threatening him—that’s why Chandon cheated you at faro.” She rushed on, trying to help him see. “This duel is part of some terrible plan. Chandon told me to take you away from here.”
Lazare exhaled, running fingers roughly through his hair. “Magician or not, he dishonored me. He cheated. He threatened to speak to my father. He called me a savage.”
There had been so many times since the game of cache-cache that she’d tried to explain away his birth. Fine clothes, fine manners—probably fine houses and horses and who knows what else. The true Lazare, she’d convinced herself, was the one that wanted to fly a balloon over the Alps. Who believed in the power of science to liberate people, to open their minds to new truths. To see things differently. To hope.
“If not for me, then for your old tutor,” she pleaded. “Didn’t you say he showed you a different kind of honor? A different way to be?”
“I’m trapped, Camille.”
Nothing was worth this ancient aristocratic idea of honor. “Please, Lazare. I don’t want you to die!”
“I must go through with this,” he said, bitterly, “otherwise I cannot live with myself.”
“But it’s foolish, and wrongheaded, can you not see that?” she pleaded. “It’s not who you are!”
He looked at her hard, his face taut with sorrow. “Then you do not know me.”
Without another word, he left her, his sword swinging at his side as he disappeared into the dark.
56
Camille blundered through the trees. She found herself not near the stables at all, but lost in a small grove that seemed to have sprung up out of nowhere. The trees had hands to grab at her, roots to trip her. Branches snapped in her face and the path diminished into a track fit only for rats. Dawn was coming, but it was pitch-dark under the trees.
She had been so wrong. She had been an idiot, a fool. But there was still time, if she could find him. Time to persuade him.
“Lazare!” she called out. “Where are you?”
Her legs wobbled from working the glamoire. She stumbled against a tree, its bark rough under her hand, and stopped to catch her breath. If she could not find Lazare, she needed to find the stables and Madame Théron’s carriage. And go home.
There—through the trees, along the run of iron fence leading to the stables. Something was moving. Surely it was a man? In a pistachio-green coat?
“Lazare? Wait!” She stooped under a branch and ran toward the fence. “Lazare?”
“If only I knew where that bastard was.”
Camille froze.
“But I suppose you don’t, either,” the Vicomte de Séguin said, stepping from behind a hedge. In the darkness, the silver embroidery on his waistcoat and cuffs glimmered. It felt as if years had passed since he and Lazare had shouted at one another, but here he stood, unnaturally fresh, as if he had just stepped out of his dressing room. He bowed. “I was sure it was you, Madame de la Fontaine. Or should I call you by your real name?”
“I hardly know what you mean,” she said, as coldly as she could.
Séguin smiled silkily. “I’ve just been down to the stables and, deplorable as it may be to both of us, the Marquis de Sablebois is already on his way back to Paris.”
“Quel dommage,” she said with a nonchalance she did not feel. It was not safe here, in the shrubbery, with him. She’d no idea what he was capable of. Or what he might decide he wanted from her. Keeping her back straight, she picked up her skirts and willed her shaking legs to move faster. “I must return home myself.”
“Shall we walk to the stables together, then? I have something to convey.”
There was nothing she would like less, but no matter how fast she walked, in her big skirts and her stays, she could not outpace him.
“You come from a tête-à-tête with Sablebois, I’m guessing? I cannot imagine that he was happy to learn of your use of magic. I remember he has a particular dislike of it.”
“Don’t speak of him.”
Cool as ever, Séguin kept pace with her. “Remember when I read your palm and gave you some advice? Not everyone at court is a lover of magic—or magicians. Hélas, those golden days are long gone. You wouldn’t wish your secret to get out?”
Camille started. Would he expose her? Was this how he threatened Chandon?
“Whatever scheme it is you have going—winni
ng lots of money, entrancing young noblemen, or just having a magnificent time—it is finished if the king learns what you really are. He hates magicians. I was just remarking on this to the Marquis de Chandon.”
“And what if I told the queen about you?” Camille countered. “What if I told them all that you are a magician?”
“Be my guest. Tell them. See how they respond to flimsy charges brought by a so-called baroness from the provinces,” he said with a sneer, “against the last remaining member of my ancient family. Expose yourself to their questioning and eventual ridicule when they discover who you are. I dare you.”
A gauntlet, tossed to the ground.
She had nothing to match Séguin’s reputation.
She was not as far as she’d hoped from that girl running in the street, tiny roll clutched in her hand, bare feet filthy under her petticoats. But Camille was not going back there, no matter what. She steadied her anger and her fear, channeling them as she would have channeled her sorrow to turn a card or a coin to something she could use. Séguin had nearly proposed to her; he wanted something from her. She didn’t yet know what it was, but surely it was valuable, and if she played carefully, she might discover it. “I thought you were my friend,” she said smoothly. “Or has that changed?”
In the half-light, it was hard to see his face. “Of course, mademoiselle,” he said, kissing her hand. Camille fought the revulsion that clawed at her throat.
At the stables, she watched him step into his phaeton and drive back to the courtiers’ wing of the palace. When she called for her own carriage, a groom appeared from one of the stalls, a wine bottle dangling from his hand. “Everyone’s left, mademoiselle. Haven’t you heard?”
She shook her head dumbly.
“We’ve destroyed the Bastille! Set the prisoners free! Taken its arsenal of weapons! Paris is on fire!” He punched a fist into the air. “Now all of you will have to answer for what you’ve done.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, stupidly.
“You haven’t heard? We attacked it—all the people of Paris. Liberated the prisoners! Several men,” he said, “lost their heads.”
It had come, then. The riots that Papa had predicted, the rising bread prices, the merciless taxation—the changes Papa had foreseen were galloping toward them.
The groom’s face swam before her as she tried to think. Sophie was in Paris. She needed to return immediately. “But the carriage? It can’t have driven back to Paris on its own!”
“Anything can happen on a night such as this,” the groom crowed. “Anything!”
Camille wanted to slap him sober. “Is there no one who can drive me?”
“Everyone’s asleep, except me.”
“Wake my coachman, please,” she said.
“How much have you got?”
She’d left her purse somewhere, dropped it when she’d fled the party. She patted her skirts where the hidden pockets were: empty. “I’ve nothing with me, but once we get to my house I can—”
“Promises, promises! And underneath, all lies, I’ll warrant. What care have you people ever had for the likes of us?”
In the distance, beyond the palace gardens, thunder rumbled. In its roar, Camille heard the growl of cannon and muskets. If no one could be found to take her, what would she do? Walk? She was so desperate to go that she was ready to drop to her knees and beg when, for the first time, the groom seemed to see her tattered cloth-of-gold dress. She saw him realize the gown she wore looked like a castoff.
“Wait.” He squinted. “You’re a servant? Why do you want a carriage at this time of night?”
Camille didn’t hesitate. “I have to get home to my mistress. You know how they are, not caring one jot for us, only their greedy selves.” At least her despair was real. “If I don’t, she’ll sack me for certain. Then what will I do?”
“You should have said that to begin with,” the groom said, more kindly. “We must stick together, non? I’ll fetch the coachman and you’ll be on your way.”
He ran off, shouting.
A wave of nausea rose into Camille’s throat. She had become just like the aristocrats she’d once loathed: heedless, careless, distracted. People were being beheaded in Paris and she had left Sophie there.
Alone.
57
Somewhere in Paris, the Théron carriage shuddered to a halt. Outside, a man was shouting; the carriage tilted as one of the horses shied, its hooves clattering on the cobbles.
Camille peered between the curtains. A thickset man holding a torch stood by the lead horse, his fingers threaded through the bridle’s cheek strap, close to the bit. In the torchlight, the horse’s neck shone black with sweat. The man shouted questions at the coachman.
What if they wouldn’t be let through? She wanted to scream in frustration. How could she have left for Versailles without knowing Sophie’s whereabouts?
Somewhere a drum was beating, quick and tight, its tempo like her heart’s.
She had to get back to the Hôtel Théron.
It was so dark it was impossible to make out any buildings. Only around the torchlights’ halos could she see anything. Outside, the voices rose, louder, angrier.
She sat like that—small, nervous sweat trickling down her back—for what felt like hours. She did not know how many prisoners had escaped or how dangerous they were, or who had done the beheading. The city exulted, hungry. The walls of the carriage felt thin as paper. She was both hidden and exposed, a mouse holding still under a cloth.
Then the carriage jounced as the coachman stepped down from the box. A moment later he opened the door.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, carefully. “The people have attacked the Bastille, searching for weapons. Some prisoners were freed—not many—but in defending the fortress, the governor of the Bastille was killed. I am sorry to say they cut off his head with a knife and paraded it on a spike around the city. Soldiers have been mobilized to keep the peace. It will take some time before we will be allowed to pass. Others ahead of us are waiting, too.”
But Camille could not stay. “Where are we now?”
“Not far from the Hôtel Théron. Four streets distant.”
“Thank you for being honest.” She gathered her skirts. “I must go.”
“Mademoiselle, it’s not safe!”
“My sister—” Camille’s voice cracked. “I’m worried for her. I didn’t see her before I left for Versailles and now—”
The coachman nodded. “Slip out quick. Keep your wits about you and stop for no one.” Locking one door, Camille unlatched the one opposite. Not far away, an explosion.
If she hesitated, if she delayed—
She closed the door behind her and ran.
* * *
Paris was a scene from hell.
Rioters ran along suddenly unfamiliar lanes, shouting, “Down with the nobles!” The weaving light of the torches they carried distorted their faces. “Down with the king and the queen, his Austrian whore!”
Fleeing down the center of the streets, Camille stumbled into a group of young men in leather aprons—Butchers’ apprentices, she thought wildly, or ironsmiths? Their faces blazed. One of them gleefully beat a drum as he shouted for the others to march in time. Two of the biggest shoved someone ahead of them. A nobleman. Not much older than her friends. His wig hung askew, and he was bleeding from a cut on his temple. His costly lace cravat had been ripped from his throat; he’d also lost his coat and one of his red-heeled court shoes. Crimson choke-rings marked his neck.
He stumbled as they pushed him on. In that instant, as his captor yanked him to his feet, he saw Camille. He took in her gold dress, the glittering brooch she’d forgotten to unpin from her shoulder.
Run, he mouthed.
She ran.
She fled down alleyways and through the ragged streets of her old neighborhood, always heading toward the safety of the Hotel Théron. In the rue de Perle, there were broken windows, doors wrenched off their frames. A load of bricks lay
scattered on the floor of a bakery, dusted with flour. Baskets lay upturned, the bread gone; a strongbox yawned open, empty. She crept along the walls, keeping to the darkest darks of the shadows, until she came to the gate of the Théron mansion.
“Monsieur Tounis!” she hissed into the deathly stillness. “Monsieur! It’s I, Baroness de la Fontaine!”
Far away, in the depths of the house, a lock clicked over.
Was it opening or closing? “S’il vous plaît, Tounis, dépêchez-vous!” She rattled the gates and instantly regretted the noise it made.
Somewhere, maybe two streets away, glass shattered. Raucous laughter echoed over the rooftops. A cart stacked with wood ambled by, the carter encouraging his horse to go faster—such an ordinary, everyday thing, but tonight the carter’s haste made her cower.
“Monsieur Tounis!” She had nowhere to go if the gatekeeper was too afraid to open the gate. Each moment that she stayed in the street was a moment too long. Sophie must be wild with worry, waiting in their rooms. She and Madame de Théron would have worked themselves into a state—
There! A light bobbing in the shadowy courtyard.
Someone was coming with a lantern. It flared up and she recognized the gatekeeper’s slight form. Camille pressed her forehead against the gates, nearly weeping with relief.
“Is that you, Baroness?” he said, his voice low.
“Yes! Please, let me in—it’s not safe out here.”
He lifted his lantern and his face loomed up at her out of the dark. “Mon Dieu!” His hands fumbled with the lock. “You are covered in dust! And the state of your dress!”
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