JUNE 1791
While not directly involved in the planning, the pending flight of the monarchs hovers at the forefront of my mind as the weeks pass, plaguing my sleep and my conscience. It’s not an easy secret to keep, not one to be quietly locked away and forgotten. Sometimes I ponder their weakness for even considering leaving their country. Other times, the memory of the queen’s frightened face comes to me like a ghost begging for long-lost sympathy, and knowing she truly fears for her life, I can’t blame her.
Madame Campan frets about it worse than I, although I don’t believe she ever doubts the legitimacy of their decision. “The date is still uncertain,” she tells me one evening, a week into June. “Count von Fersen had been ready with the arrangements for this Saturday, but the king has delayed again.” Disapproval makes her tone leaden.
“The plan cannot be treated carelessly,” I warn. “It increases the possibility of mischance.”
Madame Campan flicks a panicked look toward me, fluttering her hands. “I know. I don’t like it either. Madame,” she says, referring to the queen, “is going to speak to him about it tonight. Between us—like everything now—he has grown so indecisive and fearful. It’s a good thing she is strong for both of them.”
Her mouth still puckers with concern, and I feel sorry for her. “At least you have the disguises all ready for use.” Madame Campan and I put them together ourselves, raiding our own wardrobes, the queen’s closet, sewing a few things, and even taking a few misplaced items from the clean laundry baskets. The royal party will go disguised as members of the household of Madame de Tourzel, the governess for the children. She will play the part of a Russian baroness. The king will be her butler, a ludicrous idea that makes me want to giggle, while his sister and the queen shall pretend to be her maids. The royal children will pose as Madame de Tourzel’s daughters, which I think may be the most difficult ruse to pull off. As far as I have seen, the royal children are fond of Madame de Tourzel, but given their parents will also be present, they will have to take great care to treat the monarchs as servants.
“Does Madame de Tourzel speak Russian?” I ask. “I know her disguise as a foreigner is imperative to help them leave the country, but it seems like a risky façade.”
“No need,” says Madame Campan. “Russian nobility prefers to speak French. It’s cultured.”
It seems strange to me that a country so far away would revere our language as much as that, but I’m still patriotic enough to feel a vague sense of pride. Léon will be interested to learn this. Along with the revolutionary progress to change the government and the growing equality, he will see this as another symbol of France’s enlightenment.
“Still, it’s a dangerous plan. No doubt about that.” Madame Campan sighs, resting her delicate pink cheeks in her hands. “I pray constantly that they’ll make it to Montmédy safely.”
“Montmédy? I thought they were bound for Austria.” I stare blankly. Is this another change to the plan, which grows ever more flimsy?
“Yes, it’s a citadel northwest of Paris. The Marquis de Bouillé there is loyal to the king, and he has an army of mercenaries at his disposal. The French soldiers cannot be trusted at present time, I’m sorry to say. However, the marquis suppressed a mutiny last year, and according to Madame, the king approved of his efficiency and strong-mindedness. The marquis will be able to control the mercenaries, and the king needs a strong force at his command.”
“But the national guard is made up of a large number of soldiers.”
“Mostly untrained and ill equipped,” retorts Madame Campan. “Though I hope it should never come to fighting. We’ve seen enough already. Once the king is protected, I’m sure the more faithful subjects outside of Paris will want to see order restored without the need for civil war.”
Remembering Léon’s concern for his family in Toulouse, also dealing with riots, I wonder if the revolution is really as centered in Paris as Madame Campan seems to believe. Unfortunately, she’s the wrong person to ask. Marie Antoinette is not present, even if I dared to question her, and deep down, I’m not convinced she would know the truth anyway.
My uncle might, and this is the one thing I cannot discuss with him. I gnaw on the inside of my lip, wishing the escape would happen already, freeing me of its tangles.
“One more thing,” says Madame Campan. Her tone shifts, growing gentler. “I’ve been thinking about your role in this. I think that on the night of the escape, you ought not to be here.”
I shake my head vigorously enough that a sleek strand of hair falls across my eyes. I push it away with impatience. “You might need me to help you deflect other servants away from the queen’s bedchamber if we’re to pretend she is asleep inside.”
“I’ll manage on my own. My sister will help me.” Madame Campan’s sister is another of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting: trustworthy, a pinnacle of discretion. “It could be dangerous, Giselle. If the plan goes awry…” She presses her knuckles to her mouth, cutting the sentence off, as if vocalizing her fears will somehow make them come true. She closes her eyes briefly, regaining her composure. “You are young, my dear, and it’s better if you aren’t implicated. Just in case it goes badly.”
Later, when Geneviève and I braid our hair before bedtime, it occurs to me that if I pretend to have seen a Russian baroness in the halls, it could reinforce Madame de Tourzel’s eventual persona as such. Tuileries is busy and chaotic enough that there’s little chance of Geneviève—or anyone else—finding it suspicious. And God knows those disguises need all the credibility that can be mustered. When I think of Marie Antoinette pretending to be a maid, I shudder. There’s nothing deferential about her manner, ever.
“I saw a lady with the ugliest dress today,” I say, knowing Geneviève will be amused. “Black with olive-green trim, and such a stiff collar.” I make a face, mirroring Geneviève’s reaction. She hates olive green. “The lady walked down the hall like she owned the palace though. When I asked Madame Campan, she told me the woman is a Russian baroness visiting Paris.”
“Out of sympathy for the revolution?” asks Geneviève, perking up.
“Maybe. After all, she isn’t Austrian.”
Geneviève grins. “Probably not a supporter of l’Autrichienne, then.”
“One would hope not. Here, let me fix your hair. You’ve missed a curl.” I take her ginger braid in my hands and untwist it, beginning again. She’s always too impatient to do it properly. “How’s Étienne?”
She tilts her head back, relaxing under my hands. Her voice sounds dreamy when she speaks. “Wonderful. I’m counting the days until we meet in his rooms again. It was only last week that I saw him but it’s never enough.” She turns her head, eyeing me slyly over her shoulder. “What about you? Have you been with Léon yet, or are you waiting until your wedding?”
“It’s not far away now.” Her words have given me an idea, though. If I’m to be away on the night of the escape, perhaps I could arrange a tryst with Léon. I can’t go home easily; my parents know my schedule at Tuileries and would wonder why I had the night off. Of course, I could tell them that Madame Campan had given me the night off, which is what I shall have to tell Léon. The truth is that I ache for the chance to be alone with him, and now that the opportunity presents itself, my heart flutters with excitement.
“I want to,” I tell Geneviève honestly. “Maybe soon, if I can find a place to meet him. He lives in a room over the watchmaker’s shop, where the family also lives, so that isn’t an option.”
“I’ll help you find somewhere,” offers Geneviève. “I like arranging trysts. Now that Étienne has his own rooms, we don’t have to sneak around. I almost miss it.” She smiles lazily. “But being unrestrained is much better.”
* * *
Although I know, given the context, Geneviève had been referring to her love affair with Étienne, over the next few days, she seems to adopt this frank attitude for everything else. She has always been bold and outspoken, but she tosses revolutionary remarks without regard, peppering them into conversations in the queen’s chambers at Tuileries.
“Étienne was recently elected as an officer in the national guard,” she tells me, speaking at normal volume, in spite of the fact that Madame Campan sits only a few feet away from us, sewing. “I’m so proud of him. He’s been wearing his uniform more often, and he looks very fine in it. Don’t you like the uniforms of the national guard, Giselle?”
Madame Campan looks up at me, her gaze prodding almost tangibly, and my tongue feels stuck to the roof of my mouth. “They have an air of dignity.”
Geneviève rolls her eyes at my mumbled response, stabbing the needle through the muslin fichu she is nearly finished hemming. “Well, I adore the combination of the tricolor. The dark blue coats are rather elegant, and having the red collars and white lapels doesn’t overwhelm the severity of the uniform. Léon would look nice in that uniform, wouldn’t he?”
“I suppose so.” I accidentally prick my finger with my own needle and clench my fingers together underneath the satin petticoat to hide it and stop the tiny bubble of blood rising from my skin.
We sew in silence for a moment. I can tell Geneviève is annoyed at me, for her mouth pinches into a button of disappointment and her eyes flash more than usual. Madame Campan inflicts both of us with a severe look, lingering longer on Geneviève, and then resumes sewing, her face turning unreadable.
“People would approve so much if the king wore something similar to the national guard uniform to the next public appearance,” says Geneviève, evidently undeterred by the tension choking the room. “Those glittering jackets and plumed hats he favors are a thing of the past, and they look it too.”
I widen my eyes at her, astonished that she would speak so frankly in front of Madame Campan, whose loyalty to the queen, and by extension, the king, is unrivaled.
In response, Madame Campan exhales loudly, staring down her nose in disapproval. “Geneviève, perhaps you ought to focus on your sewing instead of proclaiming on matters of which you know nothing. I need you to have completed sewing all three fichus before bedtime.”
“Oh, this is the last one.” Geneviève speaks airily, fluffing the muslin over her lap.
Madame Campan rises and strides across the room, peering condescendingly down at Geneviève’s handiwork, but she can find nothing to complain about. As usual, Geneviève has made neat, economical stitches, and in record time.
“You should have time to darn some stockings as well, then,” she says coolly.
“Of course.” Geneviève’s voice drips with exaggerated sweetness.
Later, when we’re alone in our shared room, I grab her arm, halting her careless, quick steps. “What are you doing? Madame Campan could have you dismissed for such disloyal talk.”
“Come now, Giselle, you’re just as much a revolutionary as I am.”
Not quite as much, as it turns out, but I can’t reveal it to Geneviève. I find it rather pains me not to. The secrets I carry grow heavy, but they are fragile and need protecting, too. “Not here I’m not,” I say firmly instead. “I don’t want to get in trouble at work.”
Her eyes narrow in annoyance. “Is it really the work, or do you just want the queen to approve of you?”
“It seems to me the two are irrevocably intertwined.”
“They aren’t. I’ve worked here longer than you, and she has never approved fully of me. Then again, I never tripped over myself trying to fawn up to her, telling her about poems and frosty windows.”
Geneviève’s temper isn’t unfamiliar, but it has never been directed so harshly at me. Stung, I feel too hurt to be angry, and my voice sounds small. “I just wanted to talk to her. I wanted to feel like I fit in at Versailles. I was new and feeling a bit lost.”
“Talk to her? Or see if she would talk to you? There’s a big difference between the two, Giselle. Don’t fool yourself.”
I cross my arms and lean against the wardrobe. Maybe she’s right, but it doesn’t justify her vindictiveness. It also doesn’t make me feel better to admit that possibility. “And so? I want to keep my job here, and if that means ingratiating myself toward the queen or Madame Campan, so be it.”
She flounces across the room, sits down heavily on the bed, and throws her hands up. “I’ve given up caring. The revolution is happening all around us, and they refuse to talk about it, even though it’s their fault. It’s ridiculous. I’m tired of the games and the deceit. It was amusing for a while, but I’m finished now.”
“Amusing? There have been a great many dangerous moments as well.”
“Oh yes, but they were exciting, too. I felt drunk on it, you know, when the rioters stormed Versailles. If not for the exhilaration, I never would have dared to write that silly poem on the inside of the door, on the way to the king’s rooms. I was nearly caught then—there was so little time. I’d only just discovered that door a few hours earlier.”
Aghast, I stare at her. My eyes widen so much that they feel cold. “That was you?”
She shrugs, but from the way she looks aside, I think she feels a wash of shame. “I thought you guessed.”
“And the poison plots? Were you behind them, too?” My voice grates harshly. I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. Geneviève has always been headstrong and brave and a bit outrageous, but she pushed it further than I ever dreamed she could.
“No! Good God, Giselle, you know me better than that. When things like that were happening, I didn’t need the cruel little notes. I’d hoped they would spur change at the palace, that they’d help the queen see the revolution was a real, important thing, something that she was causing, but I don’t think she ever thought of it. Perhaps years of overly elaborate hairstyles have numbed her brain.” She smirks briefly. “But if poison attempts would not persuade her to face the revolution, I realized my notes were utterly useless, and I gave them up. For all the fright they caused Marie Antoinette, they weren’t spurring her to any action, so there was no point in continuing.”
I sit down beside her, still shocked. “I can’t believe that was you.” Geneviève has a sharpness about her and can say rather spiteful things sometimes, but this still surprises me.
“I was angry,” says Geneviève slowly. “People were starving, desperately trying to scrape two sous together. People were drowning under years of oppression. They still are; we are only now breaking free. Some might say the royal family deserved a little trouble.” She sounds defensive.
I sigh, racked by torn loyalties I can’t articulate. “It’s a hard world, everywhere.” She looks frightened, eyes bright and shoulders hunched, and when I realize it’s out of worry that I’ll repudiate her, our argument dissolves away. She’s still my closest friend, and I can’t judge her too harshly in light of my own spy work. I squeeze her hand. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Thank you. You’re a good friend. I don’t care if they find out, anyway. I’ve had just about enough of working here. I can’t be here, in the middle of the wrong side of the revolution. I just don’t believe in it.”
“You know yourself so well.” I feel a pang of envy for her self-assurance. Truthfully, I’ve rarely paused to seriously consider my own beliefs as to the revolution. I’ve been caught up in the perceived glamour of spying, enthralled by Léon’s passion for change, reflective of the new laws and shifting politics, and even with all that involvement, I let myself be swept into the personal turmoil of the queen. I have supported the revolution, but I continue to protect her, too. Every day Paris turns into a more divided city, and I don’t properly belong on either side.
“What isn’t to know?” she asks, with apparently genuine curiosity. “I’m the only person I’ll ever have to live with for my whole life—I ought to know exactly how I feel about everything. It makes sense.”
“It isn’t that simple, not for everyone.”
“Oh. Well, I’m sure you know everything about yourself, too. You just have to stop to think about it.” She offers me a tentative smile. “You often seem to have your head in the clouds, Giselle.”
“Are you going to give notice, then?”
“Yes. I probably have to, after today. Madame Campan wasn’t pleased. Even as I was speaking, I knew it would be better to bite my tongue, but I was dreadfully weary of holding things back.”
“I wish you didn’t write the notes,” I say, before I think it through. At once, I wish I hadn’t spoken.
The remnants of Geneviève’s smile vanish, and her eyes turn smoky. “I did, and I can’t take it back.”
We fall quiet as we climb into our beds and blow out the candles. I lie still, hoping that if I remain silent and motionless, I’ll suddenly find it is morning.
The blankets rustle as Geneviève sits up. I see her silhouette, the faintest shadowy impression against the dark. “I’m not proud of the notes. I thought I would be.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I felt—the circumstances.… I only wanted to help.” She sits up a moment longer, and I can feel her peering at me, before she flops back down, yawning audibly. “Things always look better in the morning, I think.”
A wave of sleepiness crashes over me. “Yes, they always do. Good night, Geneviève.” The pillows seem softer, and I drift away, feeling a little more optimistic.
In the morning Madame Campan sends Geneviève and me on separate errands. When I return from mine, there is no sign of my friend, and Madame Campan greets me with a satisfied tilt to her head and a faintly smug curl to her mouth.
“Where is Geneviève?” I ask, suspecting I know the answer already.
“I dismissed her. Such a fervent revolutionary has no place here. It was also hazardous to continue with the plan as long as she remained in service. The queen is convinced she was a spy.”
“I don’t think she was.” I was the spy, only I have stopped now. Geneviève had her own vendetta against the queen, however, which I cannot defend, and remembering it trills my voice with hesitancy.
“I’m sorry; I know you were friends. But her incendiary ideas didn’t belong here.” Madame Campan’s voice softens. “You may need to consider your friends more carefully, Giselle.” Somehow the gentle tone makes the words more insulting.
I bob my head stiffly. “Yes, Madame.”
She seems not to notice the resentment making me look down, glaring at the floor. Though hushed, her voice gains a note of excitement. “I didn’t find an opportunity to tell you yesterday, but I have news. The plan shall proceed tomorrow night. The king wanted to leave tonight, but the queen persuaded him to wait a day, until Geneviève was gone. She would not move while under that girl’s watchful gaze.”
“I did everything I could to make sure Geneviève didn’t suspect. I even mentioned seeing a Russian baroness, to set up Madame de Tourzel’s disguise.”
Madame Campan presses her fingers together. “Oh no, my dear—I didn’t intend to imply you failed. The shortcoming was mine. I should have dismissed Geneviève long ago.”
Since the rooms seem dull to me without her, I turn the subject back to the plan. “We’ll be busy with the last-minute preparations, then,” I say to Madame Campan, grateful for the prospect of being busy, distracted by the impending escape.
“Yes,” she agrees, and commences to outline a list of tasks we must complete to ready the disguises.
The day passes in a whirl of preparations, piled on my regular tasks as a tirewoman. In fact, with Geneviève’s absence, I have more work than usual. I manage to sneak away to the garden for a few minutes around lunchtime, when Léon and I often meet.
He waits near the fountain, holding three flowers in his hand: a white rose, a red carnation, and a blue delphinium. Upon seeing me, his face beams with more warmth than the sun, eyes lighting up and a bright smile growing. I sink into his arms, pressing my mouth to his neck. His arms wind around me, hands sliding up my back, and it feels comfortable and exciting. I never want to move. Things are simple in Léon’s arms. There are no schemes or artifices here, only love and loyalty.
“I picked a bouquet for you,” he says at last, releasing me from our embrace. His fingers curl around mine, and he presses the stems into my hand with his free one. “I snapped off the rose thorns with my pocketknife. You deserve more flowers, ma belle, but I saw a rather grouchy-looking gardener, and I confess to being afraid to pick more.” He laughs low in his throat. “If I was evicted from the gardens today, I wouldn’t get to see you.”
“I’m glad you’re here.” I lean closer to him, brushing my lips against his earlobe. I like the way his fingers tighten around mine. His other hand curves around my hip. “I have a plan to see even more of you.”
He licks his lips and stares at me. The sunlight makes his dark brown eyes gleam with flecks of molten gold, melting every sinew in my body. I lean against him, feeling suddenly feverish.
“Due to an unexpected schedule change, Madame Campan gave me the night off. My parents don’t know of it. Tonight I have the freedom to go anywhere.” I tilt my face up, brushing my lips against his. I’m not even trying to be teasing or seductive anymore. The heat in his eyes makes me feel deliciously wanton. “I could spend the night with you.”
Our lips are already tantalizingly close, and Léon fastens his mouth to mine with a low groan, kissing me with such passion and enthusiasm that I wish I’d thought of this sooner. The heady feeling outrivals being drunk on wine.
“If you didn’t already know, I hope my reaction told you how much I’d like that,” he murmurs, stroking my hair. “I can’t invite you to my room, though. Monsieur Renard would know if I had someone over.”
“I thought of that. I know of an inn we can use. I have a bit of money; I just received my wages. We can meet there.”
“Are you sure, Giselle? We’ll be married soon, after all.”
“Don’t you want to?”
He smiles in the crooked, endearing way I love so much, the left corner of his mouth rising slightly higher, lifting his eyebrow with it. His eyes glitter with a mixture of desire and humor. “More than anything. I’m not a madman. But I want to be certain you want to.… I’ve waited for you, for someone I love, my whole life. I could wait a few more weeks if you weren’t sure.”
“I’m absolutely certain. I don’t want to wait a few more weeks.”
He gathers me into his arms, resting his cheek against my hair. “Tonight, then.” The tremor quaking through his body echoes mine. “What time shall we meet?”