OCTOBER 1789
Outside the Tuileries Palace in Paris, I manage to send a message to my parents to let them know I’m safe. It costs me my tricolor rosette, which I’d made from queenly scraps of cloth, but a girl of about twelve, loitering in the street to watch the king and queen’s carriage wheel up to the palace doors, agrees to go to my house and deliver a verbal message. I pray she keeps her word.
* * *
The abrupt move to Tuileries shatters our routine, and the daily tasks of the queen’s household fall into utter confusion on the first day. Geneviève and I unpack what little clothing has been brought, while Madame Campan reroutes orders by Rose Bertin and Madame Éloffe to be delivered to Tuileries instead, and sends for items from Versailles.
Although the Tuileries was once a luxurious royal residence, and still appears commanding, with an arched tower flanked by long and vast walls lined with many windows, Versailles has overshadowed it as the primary palace for years. As a result, the Tuileries shows signs of deterioration. Cobwebs and dust and cracked tiles detract from the elegance of its once splendid rooms. The gardens, visible through the window of the queens’ new rooms on the second floor, are well maintained. When Madame Campan gives me leave to go outside for an hour for fresh air, I halfheartedly wander through the unfamiliar corridors, searching for the way to the gardens. All I really want is to go home. Thinking of my parents surges homesickness and loneliness in me.
Reaching a staircase with a large rectangular window at the top, I trudge up the wide, shallow steps. Perhaps from the window, I’ll be able to see which courtyard leads to the gardens. Crossing the last step, I trail my fingers across the sleekness of a decorative pillar, peering toward the window.
“Giselle?”
My step hitches when I hear my name. I recognize the cadence of the voice, the soft way it carries the second syllable. It sounds like Léon. My spirits lift, hovering uncertainly. I’m afraid to turn around in case it proves my ears deceive me. I do so slowly.
“Giselle, it is you!” A happy smile lights up his face, softening the sharp angles, and he sprints up the stairs to my side.
“I never expected to see you here, but oh God, I’m glad you are.” I reach for him.
Léon takes both of my hands, and my fingers twine themselves around his. His skin feels warm and comforting against mine. He squeezes my hands tight, once, then slides his fingers up my arms, around my shoulders, pushing me close to the wall behind the pillar, out of the way of the walkway at the top of the stairs. My heart lurches as he bends his face close to mine, my back pressing against the wall. A shiver of pure excitement flutters through me, and then his lips claim mine in a fierce, possessive kiss. I wrap my arms tight around him, feeling the visceral urge to keep him close to me, that everything will be so much better now that I’m not alone here at the Tuileries.
Léon draws back, touching my cheek lightly. “Are you all right, mon coeur?” His breath seems accelerated, like mine. I feel his chest moving under my hands with each breath.
“Yes. I wasn’t hurt, but it was rather an ordeal. I stayed awake for hours and hours—everyone did; no one could sleep through the riots outside Versailles. By the time we left, I was almost too tired to be afraid.”
Perhaps Léon knows that I’m being a bit blasé about my fear. He drifts a tender row of kisses from my temple to the corner of my mouth. “We were so worried about you, once we heard about the storming of Versailles. I visited your parents several times to see if they had updates. I happened to be there when your messenger arrived.”
“She did keep her word, then? I’m so glad. I sent a letter yesterday, but I don’t know if it’ll be delivered yet. It’s still chaotic around here.”
“I noticed. I’ve been hanging around the corridors all morning, hoping you’d pass by. When anyone asked, I told them I was here for the National Assembly. It always worked to placate them, and only two people asked anyway, out of dozens of official-looking people walking past me. Your parents are in the gardens. We split up to have a better chance of finding you.”
I smile at him, and my eyes prick at the corners. Only moments before I’d been wallowing in my loneliness, and now my loved ones are all here. “I was heading for the gardens before I found you.”
“It’ll be a better tour of them now,” says Léon gently, seeing my emotion. He bends close to my ear. “I’m glad I found you first. I couldn’t have kissed you like that with your parents nearby.”
I arch a brow, my mouth quirking in a smile. “But random courtiers are no deterrent?”
“Not at all,” he assures me, brushing his lips against mine. This kiss starts slower, softer, without the wild hard edge of the first one, but it builds, lingering, and ends with both of us flushed from its heat. My pulse feels like a staccato drumbeat, pounding against my throat. It’s a sensation that should be uncomfortable, but is instead breathlessly thrilling.
“I’m torn,” Léon murmurs against my neck. “I want to keep holding you, but I also want to hear all about the riot at Versailles.” He draws back slightly. “If you want to talk about it, of course.”
“It would feel good to speak of it, I think. It’s not easy to do here.… Everyone has a personal stake in the event.”
“Tell me everything as you’re ready, then,” says Léon.
“In the garden, so my parents can hear too.”
The gardens are the best kept part of the Tuileries, and from walking in them, one would hardly know that the palace hasn’t been the primary royal residence for years. I let go of Léon’s hand to rush toward my parents once they come into sight. I’m always happy to see them again after being at Versailles for a week, but this time the relief is strong and their smiles comfort me.
“I hope you weren’t too worried,” I tell them.
Maman shakes her head. “Impossible not to be. But I’m glad you are here, and safe.” She hugs me, and she smells like lavender, just like always.
I tell them about the storming of Versailles, leaving nothing out, though I don’t like the way my father’s jaw tightens when I talk about being shoved into the crowd and seeing the heads on pikes. My mother’s face looks pinched.
“Those poor men,” she says. “The mob forced some hairdressers at Sèvres to frizzle and powder their hair to make them look like aristocrats.” She shakes her head solemnly. “So disrespectful.”
“I met one of the guards, briefly,” I tell her. “He was very brave. He deserved better.”
“I hope the king will provide some sort of assistance to the man’s family,” says Papa.
Léon seems surprised by the destruction of the queen’s bedchamber. “Thank God you weren’t there. I’m surprised they got that far into the palace, but I did hear that someone saw the Duc d’Orleans disguised in an unassuming gray coat, leading them toward the queen’s rooms.”
I blink in surprise. It’s the first I’ve heard of that rumor, and it seems impossible. I don’t think it’s true, but that day and night was so chaotic, I wonder if I’ll ever know the full extent of events.
“I think it’s just as well the court is located at Tuileries now,” says Papa. “You’ll be closer to home. Paris is growing increasingly volatile—I like knowing you’ll be able to slip away and come to us if you need to.” His brow creases, wrinkling his heavy eyebrows with concern. “Perhaps you ought to leave your post.”
For a moment the idea tempts me. “No,” I say, thinking it over. I enjoy my work overall, and the queen is fascinating. Even if I weren’t spying for my uncle, I’d be curious about her. I like being at court, too, at the center of everything. I’m not ready to give up the prestige of it. “Not yet. Things are bound to be better now that the king is in Paris, not isolated at Versailles. If something else happens, I’ll leave then. I promise.” The last phrase comes out in a questioning tone as I look to my parents for approval.
Papa sighs. “All right, Giselle. But please be careful.”
“I can meet you here when your days off start,” offers Léon. “I’ll escort you home. It might not be safe to walk alone.”
My parents nod in agreement, and I like the idea too.
* * *
On my last day at Tuileries before my days off commence, the queen calls me to her side after her bath. She sits upright in the bed, pillows and heavy blankets heaped all around her. In spite of this, her knuckles look faintly purple, as if she caught a chill immediately after exiting the tub of hot water.
“I would like your assistance in choosing my outfit today, Giselle,” she says.
I gape at her in shock. “Me, Your Majesty?” It’s not a clever response, but it springs to my lips before I can think of a better one.
“Yes. I will wear something tricolor. Madame Campan tells me you have an understanding of the fashion for these colors and an eye for detail.”
“Madame Campan is very kind to say so.”
“She also never gives unwarranted praise.” Marie Antoinette nods toward the book of dress samples lying on the table not far from the bed. “Fetch it here.” I bring it back, and she hands me a pincushion. “Choose something elegant and undeniably tricolor.”
I’ve dreamed of holding the book of dress samples and poring over it in detail. Now that I finally have the chance, the pressure of the task overwhelms most of the pleasure. I forget to admire the variety of patterns and materials, and flip through briskly, searching for suitable colors. Marie Antoinette watches me closely, and though it makes me nervous, I’m determined to please her. Fortunately, I know which dresses of the book are here and which were left at Versailles, since I helped unpack.
In the end, I select a blue-and-white-striped gown, and a plain white bonnet and fichu. “Geneviève and I will sew red ribbon on the edges of the bonnet and fichu,” I say. “It will pull the colors together nicely.” I hesitate and force my expression to stay neutral. “Will you wear jewels, Your Majesty?”
She shakes her head immediately, eyes flashing. “No. They are here, but keep them locked away. I will dress more simply while we are at Tuileries.” Her voice rings with decision, but when her gaze flicks to the window overlooking the gardens, I think she believes they will return to Versailles soon.
“These are good choices, Giselle,” the queen tells me, although she doesn’t smile. I suppose she hates to wear the revolutionary colors, even though she knows it is the wise choice. I can’t really blame her.
* * *
In the weeks to follow, she insists I accompany Madame Campan when the orders to Rose Bertin and Madame Éloffe are put in. I do not presume to expect I would have final say over the decisions, and keep quiet most of the time, but Madame Campan sometimes asks for my opinion on colors. In spite of her offhand tone, I know she never asks unless she finds herself hesitating over the revolutionary choices. The queen orders only a few formal gowns from Rose Bertin, needed since the formal ceremonies of Versailles have since been adopted at Tuileries, but spends most of her reduced budget on silken tricolor cockades and ribbons, and orders for Madame Éloffe to make over old blue, white, and rose-colored gowns to be more revolution appropriate. She begins dressing her hair more simply, and wears modest bonnets and fichus in the fashionable tricolors for her daily walks in the sculpted Tuileries gardens.
Part of me thrills every time the queen or Madame Campan asks my advice, but it also gives me a pang of sorrow whenever I see the faint, mostly concealed resentment felt by the queen for the limited and personally offensive choices, or the worry that tightens the lines around Madame Campan’s eyes.
My uncle will be pleased, at least, knowing that I have entered the queen’s inner circle at last. The idea doesn’t excite me as much as it once would have. For all of his expertise with espionage, it has crossed my mind that perhaps he should have predicted the march on Versailles or, if not something so specific, at least foreseen a large-scale riot. Since he did not, I sometimes wonder what the point of spying is at all.