Everything That Burns

by Gita Trelease

  Rien.

  Failure gnawed at her. Just as relentlessly, she pushed it away.

  On the morning of the third day, there was still no news. Determined not to think of it, she wrote a note to Lazare, inviting him for a drive in the Bois de Boulogne. As she dropped sealing wax onto the folded paper, the afternoon unfurled dreamily in her mind: she and Lazare in an open carriage, a picnic basket tucked at their feet, the sun dancing in a lapis sky. Just the two of them together, shoulder to shoulder, nothing to interrupt or pull them apart. And later, beneath a willow whose trailing branches curtained them off from the rest of the world, there would be a blanket spread on the grass, food and drink almost forgotten as everywhere thrummed the drowsy hum of late-summer bees, Lazare stretched out beside her, leaning on his elbow, laughing, his amber-flecked eyes so close, so close she might almost—

  But a note came back with his regrets.

  He was preparing for the aeronauts’ training that afternoon and could not get away. He wrote: Forgive me. Another time, mon âme. As soon as we can—for where you are concerned, I am loath to wait. She bit back her disappointment. Unsettled, unable even to sit by the courtyard fountain with her new gothic novel, she printed off another five pamphlets, the ink liquid and darkly enticing. Not that there was a need for more. For all she knew, the entire stack of pamphlets was being used to light candles at Lasalle’s.

  She had just finished another set when Adèle appeared at the door, carrying a letter. “Madame? This arrived for you.”

  Apologetically, Camille held up her ink-stained hands. “Could you tell me who it’s from so I know if I should read it now?”

  “Oh! It’s from the bookseller,” she said eagerly. “Madame, is it about the girls?”

  “I hope so.” Quickly Camille wiped her hands on her apron. Across the letter marched Lasalle’s firm handwriting. Taking a deep breath, she cracked the seal and unfolded the paper. Despite the large sheet, the note was surprisingly short.

  Early sales promising; send more.

  –Lasalle

  She smiled so broadly that Adèle couldn’t help asking, “Good news, I hope?”

  “Incroyable! He wants more of the pamphlets—can you believe it?” She’d have been happy to know he had sold a few. That strange fever that had come over her when she was working … it must have been the feeling that things were coming right. She’d believed the pamphlet was good, but this? The news was dazzling, like wishing for a ten of spades and having it dealt right into her hand.

  Adèle beamed. “But that’s wonderful! Shall I send Daumier with the new ones?”

  She nearly said yes. “I’ll go. But there’s something else you might do.”

  * * *

  Just as she was heading into the courtyard with a basket of food Adèle had packed and a bundle of pamphlets snug under her arm, Camille collided with Rosier.

  “My apologies!” he exclaimed, flustered. He swept off his hat with a bow. He had abandoned his odd, flopping hat for a smart tricorne, and carried his pipe in one hand and in the other, a swoop of pink cabbage roses. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course,” Camille assured him. “I’m quick on my feet.”

  He regarded her carefully. “Going out?”

  She patted the basket. “I was about to take these pamphlets to the bookseller.”

  “I am well aware of your latest and most extraordinary pamphlet—Sophie has already told me about it! Which is why I came to show you this—take a look.” Giving her the roses to hold, he extracted from his pocket a rolled-up newspaper and unrolled it with a snap. “See? Your pamphlet is quoted here.”

  “But it’s only been a few days.” She stared at the tiny print. It was a very small mention in a rectangular box at the bottom of the page. Taking the paper from him, Camille read it aloud. “‘Camille Durbonne—’”

  “How daring you are to use your real name!” Rosier remarked. “Why not sign yourself Anonymous like so many other pamphleteers?”

  She’d had enough of disguises and pretending. “Jean-Paul Marat uses his own name. And Giselle was willing to say so much. If they are brave enough to reveal themselves, then so must I be.”

  Rosier raised an approving eyebrow. “Continue.”

  “‘Madame Durbonne,’” she began again, “‘has done Something Extraordinary.’” Her breath caught. “Oh, Rosier!”

  He beamed. “Read on, read on.”

  She wanted to rush through, inhaling it, but she made herself read slowly. “‘She has given us a True and Authentic Insight to a Girl of the Streets, as if We were sitting just opposite Her, such that any Reader might understand the Sadness and Pain of a Girl’s Plight and how she came to be Where She Is, through No Fault of her Own.’” Through no fault of her own—that was exactly what she’d hoped to show. “‘Told in Plain and Moving Words, the Flower Seller’s story would Convince Anyone that Something Must be Done. Who are We if the Sorriest Among Us receives no Aid?’” Camille frowned at the last line. “‘The sorriest among us’ goes too far. Don’t you think? The girls are so clever and determined.”

  “My thoughts exactly. But don’t stop, the final sentence awaits.”

  Finding her place, she read, “We anticipate the Next Story, and Hope that the Intrepid Writer will succeed in Convincing the People of Paris to Prevent the Razing of the Lost Girls’ home. WE are Convinced.”

  “There!” exclaimed Rosier. “Good, non?”

  It was so good she could hardly believe it. It was the kind of good that made the sky seem bigger. “Can you imagine if we managed to change the tide, Rosier? The girls might keep their house and their independence. And then—who knows what else could happen!”

  “Brava! Keep going. You will be a star in the firmament of literary Paris, I know it.”

  Seriously, she said, “It is the girls’ stories that matter, Rosier.”

  He waved his pipe at the idea. “Of course, of course. But some small credit must be due to the one who does the writing, non? I have always sensed it—first, Jeanne d’Arc of the Air! And now—Jeanne d’Arc of the Seine?”

  “More like Jeanne d’Arc of the Mud,” she said, remembering her ruined shoes, “but thank you, Rosier.” She looked at him more carefully: smartly tied cravat, clean suit, on his coat an elegant tricolor rosette just like the ones Sophie made—there was a new brightness about him. “You haven’t said why you’ve come.”

  “To deliver the newspaper to you, naturellement, and the flowers to your sister before we go to her shop. She has preliminary costumes for Les Merveilleux to show me and claims they’re much better than what I’d come up with. There is no doubt about that.”

  “I think I heard her upstairs—shall I let her know you’re here?”

  “Not at all! Beauty takes its time. But I’ll relieve you of the flowers.”

  Before handing them to him, Camille brought them to her nose, inhaling scents of jasmine and clove. “She will love them.”

  “Will she?” Rosier mused. “Or will she stick them in a vase with bouquets from all her other admirers?”

  It had taken only one ride, two weeks ago, among the jostling, peacocking crowds at Longchamp before the invitations piled up for Sophie. Last week alone her presence had been requested at an English tea, a midnight dance, a card party: every hostess in town wanted to display this pretty mademoiselle who’d sprung up from nowhere to live at the mysterious Hôtel Séguin. “They think us wealthy,” Camille had said in Sophie’s ear one night. “And what of it?” her sister had said with a toss of her head. “Is anyone who they really are? I for one wish to enjoy it.”

  To Sophie’s credit, she didn’t repeat the error she’d made with Séguin. Shrewdly she saw through the dull, rich suitors as well as the handsome ones who had nothing more than charming manners to their names. The Marquis d’Auvernay, as she’d said to Lazare, was wealthy in every way, for he had youth, money, looks, and intelligence. But he hadn’t yet asked for Sophie’s hand.

  “No one’s pro
posed, if that’s what you mean.”

  Rosier’s eyes lit. “Just what I wished to know! Bien sûr, I know I am a long shot. But as long as there’s a chance, I will keep trying.”

  Camille hoped he would. After her visit with Rosier yesterday, Sophie seemed happier than she had in a long time. “Bonne chance, dear Rosier. I will be cheering you on.”

  * * *

  Once she’d left most of the pamphlets with Lasalle—who had bowed to her, who had no pamphlets remaining, who had all sorts of questions about what she might write next—she made her way to the river. It was midday and a few of the girls were sitting on a bench tucked close to the wall of the little cottage.

  “It’s our Printing Princess!” exclaimed the fruit seller, Margot, as she rose to usher Camille inside. “Has she brought something for us, Céline?”

  “Come see!” Camille set the basket down on a worn table in the center of the room. The girls crowded around, lifting up the linen and pulling out bread and pastries, lemonade and cider. Giselle was quick to hand the prettiest pastry to Céline, who had to stand on her toes to peer inside the basket.

  “Thank you, princess,” said Céline with her sweet lisp after she took a bite.

  “You are all very welcome to it,” Camille said. She didn’t even care if they called her princess, she could hardly keep the smile from her face. “Do you know what’s happened? The pamphlets are selling so well the bookseller has asked for more!”

  “Giselle’s pamphlet?” asked Claudine the lock picker, dressed as before in pants and a boy’s coat.

  “Voilà.” Camille held up a copy. “Giselle’s story.”

  The flower seller stared as if Camille had suddenly produced an elephant. “Truly? May I see?”

  “I’ll read it for you,” said red-haired Odette, rising from her chair. Taking the pamphlet from Camille in her ink-splotched hands, she examined it carefully, then raised it to her nose. “Freshly printed.”

  “Odette’s our writer,” tiny Henriette the forger said proudly. “Always thinking.”

  “What do you write?” Camille asked, but Odette was already climbing onto a stool. Outside a river barge sailed by, sounding a horn. Odette waited for silence before she began. In her rich, commanding voice, the story unfolded, tragic but shining with Giselle’s love for her sister, and her hope.

  As Giselle listened to Odette read, powerful emotions crossed her face. Though it was her own story, she looked as if she were hearing it for the first time. As if a play had been made of her life, and she was watching it.

  Camille’s throat ached with happiness. It was powerful to be seen.

  When Odette finished, no one said anything. The noises of the city and the plash of the river felt very far away. “Well, what do you think?” Camille asked Giselle.

  Giselle considered. “Until you asked me to tell it, I didn’t think I had a story. Or a life, the way people say. What happened to me was only a jumble of things, all of them bad, and people who did cruel things. But hearing it written out in my own words,” she said, her voice catching, “I see it wasn’t my fault what had happened to me. And despite what they did, I survived.”

  Survive was a word with edges, rough and strong and powerful. Tiny Henriette began to clap, and when the others joined in, Giselle took a little curtsey.

  “You too, princess!” Céline demanded.

  Camille obliged. “There’s something else.”

  “Will wonders never cease?” Odette asked.

  Her sharp questions hurt. Camille doubted Odette would ever accept her, but she told herself it didn’t matter. She unfolded the newspaper and pointed to the column that praised the pamphlet. “People are already becoming convinced it would be wrong to evict you.”

  “Truly?” Giselle said. “How quickly it’s happening!”

  It was happening almost too fast, like dry wood catching fire. Like magic. But she would not let it worry her. “Imagine this. If we printed a few more stories and made it a series, it would be like a chorus. Many voices are more powerful than one. And since the first one is selling so well, people might pay in advance for a subscription to the rest to make sure they got the next one as soon as it was printed. The money would be yours.” She paused, remembered again the uncanny certainty she’d felt as she’d printed the first one. This could work, but she needed them to believe. “Is there anyone else who might—”

  “Me.” The forger Henriette, with her cloud of pale hair, stepped out from behind Odette. “I’m next.”

  12

  That night the doors to the printing room yawned open, as if waiting for her.

  Inside it reeked of ash, stronger than before. Pamphlets telling Giselle’s story hung from lines running crisscross along the ceiling, more than she had remembered printing. It was no mystery why they were selling. The design—the striking way the letters were laid out, the amount of breathing room—was part of it. But there was something else in them, even beyond Giselle’s story. A kind of dark allure.

  A few nights ago, she’d blamed what she’d seen on her fatigue. That the fire smoked. That she’d been imagining things. Now the worry she’d buried when talking with the girls returned: there was something unnatural about what was happening.

  The old house was woven through with magic, but whatever was happening in the printing room was new. Only when she’d printed the story about Giselle had she felt it: a shift, like the air crackling before a storm. There had been the blood from her hand on the paper. And, she remembered, with a creeping horror, she’d made a wish: that the pamphlets be entrancingly perfect.

  Magic, she knew, compelled. It was one of the first lessons she’d learned: how magic, worked with sorrow’s fuel, made things irresistible. The more time she’d spent at Versailles, the more the courtiers had fêted her, the palace’s hundred doors welcoming her to parties and games. Even the magic Chandon had used to cheat at cards had a persuasive glamour to it: he nearly always won, yet everyone still clamored for the privileging of losing money at his table.

  No, she told herself, it wasn’t like that. Magic was no longer something she did.

  But as she began to set the type for Henriette’s story, the strange fever rose despite her intentions. This time she resisted, imagining that she pushed away the scorching tide. Sweat pricked on her forehead and her upper lip. Her fingernails dug into the wood of the press as she tried to resist the fever’s pull.

  “Get away,” she said out loud. But it only came on stronger, racing along her skin, hot and cold at once, urging her on. Once she began to work, the type seemed to leap between her fingers.

  Too fast. Too easy.

  She hesitated again, a handful of type clenched in her fist. As her arms trembled from the strain of holding back, she wondered: Too fast for what?

  Too fast to save the girls from the streets? Too easy, when what they and others like them faced was violence and misunderstanding? They stood to lose so much.

  But what if she was working the pamphlets with magic? No matter how she sometimes secretly yearned for it, for magic to fill the hunger it had once carved into her, she would not return to it—blood and craving and destruction.

  The voice in her head whispered: Does it truly matter? You could do so much good.

  She thought of Rosier and his marvels, his dream to bring hope to the people of Paris. What she was doing wasn’t that different, she told herself. But what would Sophie think, who’d always hated magic? And Lazare, who reviled it?

  If she had learned anything from what had happened in the spring, it was that magic brought unforeseen consequences. Whatever she did now—used this strange new power or turned away from it—would change the path she stood on.

  She did not know how to make the choice.

  Sharp pain made her nearly drop the handful of type. Tiny marks showed red where the type had bitten into her flesh. For an unsettling, dizzying moment, she imagined turned coins gleaming in her palm.

  For the thousandth time, she regrette
d how little she knew about magic. Maman, either reluctant or afraid to tell her any more than she absolutely needed to know, had left her in the dark, and Chandon, who knew so much, was unreachable at his estate. His magic had always seemed dazzling but ordinary, used mostly for cards. But who else could she ask? She’d write to him for help.

  But that could take a week. And the girls didn’t have a week.

  It would be perilous to wait.

  Magic or not, whatever would follow, she must set the type into the frame and tell these stories. They would be bricks in a wall to shelter the girls. It was what she’d so desperately wanted.

  Just because the type burned like embers in her hand didn’t mean she had to stop.

  THE LOST GIRLS SPEAK

  THE FORGER

  I WAS THREE YEARS OLD WHEN

  MY TALENT WAS DISCOVERED

  Forgery was not what I thought I was doing when papers were laid before me and I was told to copy them. At first, it was P L A Y. Then I began to think myself very fine. An A R T I S T. For wasn’t I doing what all artists did? Copying nature or copying a letter, what was the difference? When I was seven I would sit on a high stool in the apartment of my father’s distant cousin, who I discovered, later, was a forger himself. By twelve I was better than he was. I was like an apple tree to him, something he could pluck for its fruit. He planned to marry me, though it would be more accurate to say B U Y M E, and keep me working for him.

  My hard work, stolen.

  I don’t blame my parents. We were all so hungry. They believed I would be taken care of by the man who had taught me everything I knew. Almost everything. But I was only twelve years old. Two days before the wedding, I despaired. I walked into the river with stones in my apron.