“I’d like that. I’ve missed you.”
“I’m anxious to hear all about your wedding plans.” Eugénie shrugs out of her shawl.
“They’re not very far along yet, I’m afraid. You must help me with them.”
She leads me to the parlor and flops onto the sofa. “Tell me all about Léon. I’ve met him, of course, but it’s different now that he is to be your husband.” Her voice drops, even though I know very well that she scanned the hallway to make sure there is no one in earshot of the parlor before we entered. “Do you kiss all the time? Are you going to sleep—or rather, not sleep—with him before the wedding?”
“Eugénie!” I protest, mildly scandalized by her questions. My cheeks sear with embarrassment.
“I know very well that my parents were together for twelve years before they married,” she retorts. “I doubt they were chaste for over a decade.”
“Let’s not think of that,” I advise, wrinkling my nose.
“I agree,” she says calmly. “Let’s talk about you and Léon instead.”
“All right,” I relent, laughing. “I don’t know.”
“That’s the best answer.” She nods seriously. “If you do, it ought to be spontaneous and romantic.”
“How do you know so much? You’re only thirteen.”
“Almost fourteen. Besides, Juliet was thirteen. I think.”
“And she was a marvelous example of a successful marriage.”
Eugénie grins. “Well, I just finished reading Romeo and Juliet. I have been reading a great many romances lately, mostly in secret. I have to stay indoors more often than before, now that there have been so many riots, and I have to amuse myself somehow.”
Laughing, I feel my spirits lift. In spite of her complaints, Eugénie seems almost untouched by the drama of the revolution, and it’s freeing to push those cares away for an afternoon.
* * *
As the months pass, we take in dozens of the queen’s gowns, narrowing the already slight waists and sleeves. Marie Antoinette’s reddish-gold hair begins to fade to a more ashy shade, threading with silver strands, and a single streak of white forms above her left ear and seems to grow a bit wider every day. Worse, her pale face etches with permanent creases of worry, deepening around the corners of her mouth and puckering her proud forehead.
One afternoon, the queen calls me to her side. “Giselle, would you tell me if any strange domestics came near my chambers?”
“Yes, of course, Your Majesty.”
She studies my face intently, perhaps looking for signals of a lie. I make an expression of concern, easy to do because the feeling comes easily to the surface when I see her up close, ravaged by stress.
“Forgive the question if it is impudent, but has there been another anonymous note?” I ask quietly.
Her eyes harden. “From dame de la révolution, you mean?” Her voice scrapes across the alias. “No, not since the last night at Versailles. I believe that the perpetrator must not have been relocated to Tuileries.”
“I would tell you,” I say, returning to her original question. She looks as though she needs the reassurance. A knot forms in my stomach as I speak, and I stare at her earnestly, trying to reassure myself of it as well. I’m not the most loyal servant, but I don’t want to see her harmed.
“Thank you, Giselle.” Her gaze darts around the room, though no one is close to us, and she licks her lips nervously. “I am watched constantly—even more than usual, and I am accustomed to it. A queen is never alone, nor is a dauphine, and I have been both. Perhaps that tells you how intense the scrutiny is now. The national guard is always watching.… One of them protected me at Saint-Cloud, but any man can join their ranks, and many of them are fervent revolutionaries. I don’t know who to trust. Even some of my household staff…” She trails off, and I wonder if, like me, she thinks of the failed poison plot uncovered at Saint-Cloud, which might have been successful if it had the participation of someone with intimate access to her household.
“I won’t let any strangers near you,” I promise. “If it pleases you, I’ll come to you at once if anything suspicious happens. I won’t interrupt, but I could arrange a signal meant only for you.”
She doesn’t answer at once, but her shoulders loosen slightly. In contrast, her gaze sharpens, and I think she will stare all the way into my soul. I try not to flinch. She’s had years of practice in staring down the most haughty aristocrats, and I’m no match for her.
“Carry a red-and-white handkerchief with you,” she commands at last, her voice gentle. Her eyes have softened now. “Drop it on the floor if we are not alone and cannot speak. Don’t look back—pretend you haven’t noticed its absence. If the circumstances won’t allow this, you can always speak to Madame Campan.”
The plan strikes me as needlessly complicated, that going to Madame Campan might always be the best course of action, but I nod solemnly. She seems calmer now, and I don’t want to make her panic again. Perhaps the complexity of the plan is an indication of the great depth of her unease. “I will, Your Majesty.”
“Good.” Her small mouth twitches in a tiny smile. “Now hand me the gray silk shawl, please. I am meeting someone in the receiving room in a few moments.”
A short time later, I find an excuse to go past the outer rooms of the queen’s chamber, where she sometimes entertains high-ranking guests and her few close friends. Axel von Fersen sits across from her, leaning forward with his hands resting on his knees, speaking in a low voice. I can’t make out the words, but I’d have to be blind not to see the tender regard lighting his eyes, the way his body orients toward hers, hunching protectively. Recalling the rumors that they used to be lovers, and witnessing the warm affection between them, I wonder if it was true then, and true again now. It doesn’t matter to me, but I’m glad to see her with someone who cares for her. There are few enough of them, God knows.
Chapter Thirteen
APRIL 1791
“I am sorry there isn’t a proper cake.” Maman puts the plate down in the center of the table. The best blue china gleams against the crocheted white lace of the tablecloth. “The flour prices are erratic. I never expected prices would still be so outrageous two years later. All these riots don’t seem to change anything.”
“I don’t mind. I like baked apples.”
“I know. But you’re eighteen now, and it’s a special age. You deserve a beautiful cake with cream and preserved cherries. Besides, these apples are from last fall. I asked our cook to bake them; they’re a bit soft now.”
“You said that seventeen was a special age too, and sixteen, and fifteen before that.…” I grin at her. “The apples look delicious.”
“Yes, they do,” says Léon, with enough fervency that Papa laughs.
“Let’s serve it now, and not deprive the poor boy any longer.”
“There’s rum sauce to go with them, at least,” says Maman. “To make it a little more fancy.”
“Everything is perfect, Maman. I haven’t eaten roast beef in a long time. I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday supper, or better company.” I smile fondly at everyone around the table. We are a small, intimate group, only my parents and Léon.
Papa turns to Léon. “Will it affect your work, now that the guilds have been abolished?”
He shrugs. “I was a member, and it wasn’t easy to join, but a lot of people see the guilds as a remnant of feudalism. If the economy is to move forward, change has to happen. I confess, I won’t miss the guild very much. They talked of going on strike, and I don’t want to. It would lengthen my apprenticeship. Even afterward, I’d rather be working and providing for my household.” His hand brushes mine.
I smile at him. It’s hard to believe two years have passed since our first meeting. My happiness makes it feel as though he’s been part of my life forever, but our moments together still glow with excitement, too.
After supper, Léon and I excuse ourselves to go for a short walk. The full moon splashes filmy
light over the street, bathing the city in gradients of silver and gray, and we pause in the fathomless shadows of quiet corners and the dark privacy under the heavy branches of trees to snatch kisses.
“I can hardly wait to be your wife,” I whisper, as his mouth leaves mine and roves down my neck, pressing soft, lingering kisses to my skin.
His fingers tighten on my waist, pressing me closer to the tree trunk at my back, and he makes a low rumble of pleasure in his throat. “I can hardly say how happy it makes me to hear that.” His lips move close to my ear, his breath tickling in an erotic way that makes me shiver. “I think about you all the time, Giselle.”
“I do too.” Resting my palm along his cheek, I bring his face closer to mine for another bone-melting kiss.
After a while, we reluctantly drift apart, but keep our hands twined together.
“We’ll have to walk a bit now,” I say, feeling the warmth of my flushed cheeks and slightly swollen lips.
“We wouldn’t look innocent at all,” agrees Léon. “My heart’s still racing.”
I flatten my palm against his chest to feel its flutter, and instead become distracted by the enticing feel of his hard muscles, the angular shape of his collarbones, the breadth of his shoulders.
He sucks in a breath, holding still, and then evidently gives up on self-control, because his hand grasps the back of my neck and his mouth crashes down on mine again.
“Soon we’ll walk,” I say breathlessly a moment later. “In just a bit.”
“If you say so.” The corners of his mouth quirk briefly, until I kiss his smile away.
* * *
As a month passes and May closes, I notice a marked change in Marie Antoinette.
The first sign is that she begins ordering new gowns from Rose Bertin again, instead of relying on made-over ones. The new items aren’t strategically colored, and she appears to favor green and white, as well as purple and black. She also rejects many of the tricolor items in her daily dress choices, instead gravitating to green, which brings out the near-lost glint of red in her curls, and lavender, which emphasizes the milkiness of her skin and the shadows under her eyes.
Gowns aside, her demeanor shifts as well, albeit in a less noticeable way than her drastic change in color choices. Perhaps someone who has not watched her as closely as I have would remain oblivious, but I observe the way she paces along the long row of windows, gazing outside wistfully, staring as though she imagines seeing past the rooftops of Paris and into freedom beyond. Sometimes she sits at her desk for hours at a time, writing more slowly than usual, her lips moving as she thinks of the words to write, although she never speaks loud enough for me to hear anything. Indeed, her mouth twitches in concentration only; I don’t think she’s saying words at all. Once, she asks for a list of all the contents of her closet at the Tuileries, and spends two hours poring over it alone. And she sees Count Axel von Fersen every day, murmuring to him with their heads bent close together, locked in their own private conversation.
“I thought this might look well with your cornflower-blue gown, Your Majesty,” I say to her one morning, proffering a blue sash edged in scarlet and embroidered with small white fleur-de-lis. I’ve sewn it myself, but I don’t say so to the queen. It isn’t my place.
She gives it a cursory glance. “No. I will wear purple today, and that will not suit.”
“Of course, Your Majesty. Shall I put this aside for tomorrow, then?”
“No.”
I hear the finality in her voice, but since I worry about her, the words spring almost unbidden to my lips. “It’s only that it’s very fashionable at the moment.…”
Her gray eyes flare angrily, sparking with silver. “I make the fashion.”
I bow my head, averting my gaze to the floor. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
She makes me wait for a moment before releasing me, either by stalking away or giving me leave to look up, but when she does speak at last, her voice softens a little. “You are concerned for me, Giselle, and your loyalty is commendable. But our days of planning tricolor outfits together have ended, I believe. The people ceased believing it. They see me as an actress, playing the part of revolutionary and never truly caring for a moment. I would rather dress as myself, be seen as myself, than be seen to be costumed like a charlatan.”
I don’t know what to say, especially as the thought has often crossed my mind that she does not understand the need for change that drives the revolution, and wishes the whole thing would simply vanish. “I—I am sorry.”
“Do not be. None of this is your doing.” Giving me a strange smile, half-kind but still with a hard edge that thins her lips, she turns and walks away, managing to convey all the sweeping haughtiness of royalty, even while dressed simply in her nightgown and a purple wool shawl.
Madame Campan pauses at my side, her arms folded, hands clasping her elbows as if protecting herself from the cold. “It’s good of you to try, Giselle. The revolution is not easy for her.”
“She has been ordering many new dresses from Rose Bertin,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.
“She must amuse herself somehow,” says Madame Campan roughly. “Everything else is slowly being taken away from her.”
“I hope she doesn’t spend too much. They will revile her for that.”
I expect a reprimand for my impertinence, but Madame Campan sighs, her shoulders sagging. “I know. I have warned her that acquiring too much clothing now could be dangerous, but she doesn’t listen to me.” Her mouth twitches in a wan smile. “She has always been headstrong, and while I’m her friend, I am below her.”
“She may listen to you yet.” I pat her hand comfortingly. I don’t think I’ve ever touched Madame Campan before. The bones of her hand feel delicate and frail, like a bird’s, though she’s not elderly. “She knows you love her.” I explain my arrangement to warn Marie Antoinette of danger by means of dropping a red-and-white handkerchief.
Her eyes grow thoughtful, her thin, sculpted eyebrows dropping as her face grows more serious. “I think perhaps I haven’t given you enough credit,” she says very quietly. “Thank you, Giselle.”
“It’s the least I could do,” I say honestly. It isn’t enough, I know. It won’t atone for spying, although I like to think I’ve never reported anything that changed the course of her life, and it won’t comfort her through the threats she receives daily. But it’s something.
Late the next day, when I’m nearly ready for bed, Madame Campan pulls me aside. “Giselle, one of Her Majesty’s earrings is missing. Have you seen it?” She sounds a little sharp.
Across the room, I see Geneviève’s eyes widen in surprise, and then she glares, miming pouring a bottle of perfume over Madame Campan’s head. While I appreciate her loyalty, nervousness ripples over me, and I’m not comforted.
“I haven’t seen a lone earring.” My lips feel very dry. “Which one is it? I’ll search.”
“Are you certain you haven’t seen it?” Madame Campan grasps my arm, not tightly, but I daren’t resist her. She leads me into the antechamber of the queen’s bedroom. “Nothing with pearls?”
“No, nothing. I promise.”
“It could have been an accident,” she says. “Caught in your skirt, perhaps.” She closes the door behind us.
“I swear, Madame Campan, I would never touch Her Majesty’s jewelry.” I feel cold, certain that my face is pale with fear. Being accused of theft is the last thing I expected to happen to me here.
She pulls me across the room, farther away from the door. “I know, Giselle. I’m sorry, but I had to get you away from the others without making them believe you were receiving special treatment. That would make them pay a great deal of attention, all of it born of jealousy.”
“Special treatment?” I stare blankly.
“Of a sort.” She bends her face closer to me, peering into my eyes. “Giselle, I need to know that I can trust you.”
“You can.”
“And the queen may trust
you?”
“Yes.” I meet her stare unwaveringly. “I promised to protect her as well as I could, didn’t I? I meant it, every word.”
Relief washes some of the lines from her face. “I believe you. I never thought to be in this situation with you, putting all my trust in you. You were always a good tirewoman, right from the start, but sometimes a little irreverent, and so close with Geneviève.”
“She means well,” I say, understanding that Madame Campan will not forgive nor forget Geneviève’s revolutionary proclivities.
“I’m going to tell you a secret, because I require your assistance. It’s potentially dangerous, and if you betray me, it puts more than one life at risk.”
Speechless, I scan her face for signs of jesting. She regards me calmly, but with a serious edge to her glance that tells me she watches me for signs of slyness. I think through the implications of her words before I say anything, wondering if I even want to know.
“If I help you, I may potentially help save lives?” It seems to be the logical reverse of her warning.
“Four lives, possibly eight,” she confirms. “Maybe even more.”
I think about it a moment longer but there’s only one answer I can give. Sighing slowly and gently, trying to relax even though tension floods me, I nod. “I keep secrets very well. I’ll help you.”
“Sit down,” commands Madame Campan, eyes glittering with approval and purpose. She points to the low cushioned bench along the wall. Once we’re both seated, she tells me the king and queen have been plotting, with the aid of Count Axel von Fersen and herself, to flee Paris, taking their children with them.
“They will be killed if they remain here,” she says.
“Surely not.” Even I hear the confusion in my voice, the doubt. I saw the wreckage of Marie Antoinette’s bedchamber at Versailles, after all, the glitter of mirror shards and silks ripped and torn, feathers scattered everywhere, drowning everything like the blood the rioters wanted, only white and soft instead of scarlet and sticky.
“It’s not safe for them, especially our queen.” Madame Campan sounds resolute. “They must get to Austria, where the queen’s brother may offer them protection.”
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