JUNE TO JULY 1791
A pool of sunshine spills into the parlor. I drag one of the chairs to its center, taking comfort in the warmth as I embroider a handkerchief. Desperate to keep my mind and hands busy, to lose minutes in concentration on a menial task, I design an elaborate pattern of violets. I considered roses, but red reminds me of tricolor, and revolutionary notions drag at me now, shadowing me in soul-sick weariness. I don’t want to think about anything. Not about the queen, not about Léon, not about myself. I want to think of nothing but how precise I can make the tiny purple stitches.
Maman finds me after a while, giving me a gentle smile and a cup of tea. She seems to sense that I don’t wish to speak, so she ruffles my hair, an affectionate gesture that has fallen out of habit since I was much younger, and leaves me alone with the quiet sunshine. I appreciate her understanding.
The next interruption is far less welcome: a knock on the door. The needle jabs my finger as I twitch with surprise, and I freeze, listening with anticipation and trepidation, hoping the visitor is Léon, fearing that it is not.
My uncle’s smooth voice rings through the hall. Disappointment stabs through me so deeply that I feel ashamed for letting my hopes rise for Léon’s presence. I remember the bitterness etched over his face when we parted, the way he wouldn’t quite look at me, and I have to clench my lips together to keep fresh tears from starting.
“Good afternoon, Félix. I hope you’re well. We haven’t visited in some weeks,” says Uncle Pierre.
“We are all well, thank you.” Papa expresses his greetings for Eugénie and her mother, and they make small talk for a moment. I continue sewing, not looking up. By counting stitches and taking even, measured breaths, I bring my emotions under control again.
“Are you settled into your new house?” asks Papa.
“Oh yes, it’s very comfortable.”
“And the location?” I hear distaste in my father’s tone. “Across from the remains of the Bastille, isn’t it? It seems like a rather maudlin landmark to live near.”
“There is hardly anything left of it now.” Pierre sounds dismissive. “Once the workers are finished clearing away the last of it, I daresay the view will be splendid.” He clears his throat. “I wanted a word with Giselle. Is she home?”
“She is. I’m not sure she’s up to visiting, however. She’s not well today.”
“I am sorry to hear that. Perhaps, if I call back later?”
Sighing, I put my sewing aside and rise to my feet. My head feels heavy, temples throbbing, but I’d rather face the inevitable conversation with my uncle now instead of delaying. I want to get it over with, not let the dreadful anticipation build.
I clear my rusty throat. “Hello, Uncle. I’m well enough to speak for a few moments.”
He smiles, but his eyes glint with steel. “Thank you, my dear. Should we go to the study?”
“The parlor will be fine.” Without looking back to see if he follows, I return to my sun-splashed seat and pick up my sewing again. It makes me look unconcerned, bending my head over nonurgent embroidery while he paces around the room, clearly waiting for me to speak first.
After a while he admits defeat and sits down opposite me. “I’ve heard some extremely interesting news.” His voice carries an edge of a quality akin to slyness.
My detached façade flickers. I’m certain he knows about the queen’s departure, that he possibly suspects my role in it. Determined not to react, I find my fingers tightening around the cloth anyway. “Yes?” Striving to sound tranquil, I look up, letting my brows arch in a display of mild curiosity.
He reaches into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulls out a folded piece of paper, which considerably increases my bafflement. Opening it slowly, he proffers the paper, and I see that it is an assignat, a form of paper money that came into circulation a couple of years ago, issued by the National Assembly.
“It’s odd, don’t you think, that a bill as new as this would still include the king’s portrait?” He peers at the profile of King Louis, then back at me. “This money was created after the start of the revolution, after hatred of the king was well rooted, and yet, here is his face.” His shoulder lifts in a shrug. “I suppose tradition clings in ways we do not expect. It’s just as well, for having the king’s likeness can be very useful, as it turns out. A postmaster in Varennes, one Monsieur Jean-Baptiste Drouet, recognized the king’s profile when he looked upon the face of a supposed butler passing through Varennes. This butler was part of the retinue of a Russian countess, I’m told, and she had children and other servants with her as well.”
He still holds the assignat toward me. The paper drapes crookedly over his palm. I take it from him, studying the profile of the king. The soft bullfrog swell of his chin and his sloping nose really are quite distinctive. What a pity, since it triggered his recognition.
“You needn’t carry on with the long-winded story,” I tell my uncle tartly. “I’m quite intelligent enough to make the connection that the man truly was the king, and the queen and their children were there too. I’m aware they left Tuileries, after all.”
His teeth show in a cool smile. “Of course. I beg your pardon, Giselle. It’s such a good story. I get caught up in the telling. They say that, when the king’s disguise was caught out, the queen herself straightened up like the empress of the world and peered down her Hapsburg nose at the onlookers and said, ‘Since you recognize your sovereign, respect him.’ And the mayor, who had been called to the scene as soon as suspicion was aroused, made a chagrined bow. It did not stop him from doing his duty, however, and the flight of the monarchs was halted.”
“It sounds in character for her,” I say numbly.
“You would know,” replies my uncle. “You know her rather better than most people have had the opportunity to. Or the desire to.”
Remaining silent, I pick up my needle again, but it’s useless. I can’t focus. I set it back down, this time on the side table instead of my lap.
Uncle Pierre’s voice drops. He narrows his eyes, abandoning the show of light chitchat. While the earlier pretense was still glazed with malice, his anger rings unmistakably now, not contained by the low volume. “I know you helped them escape, Giselle.”
I haven’t the faintest idea how he knows, but a sick feeling coils in my stomach, tugging my limbs taut. Moving with the tension pulling me apart, I rise to my feet. I’m tall enough that we are almost the same height, and as his eyes bore into mine, I stare back. My brows draw closer together, scowling with me, and I’ve never been so glad of the fierce dark shape of them. Perhaps I don’t have a delicate face, but I can stare down my bullying uncle enough to make him blink and rock back one step.
“Their lives were in danger,” I say coldly. “You know this. I told you about several incidents of death threats and assassination attempts.”
“And so you chose to protect them instead of your family? To keep this secret from me?” He waves his hand, palm flexing in frustration.
My lip curls. “We are safe enough. No one is sending us daily threats. No one is calling for your blood.”
His voice slips to a low volume, but it doesn’t sound soft. “Have you forgotten the Réveillon riot? That man and his family were targeted and nearly lost their lives. It could happen to any of us. Feudal privileges have already been abolished. Marat’s bloody pamphlet, L’Ami du Peuple”—he rolls his eyes at the title—“rages against aristocrats. The threat is all around; a mob could storm the house any day, taking what they want and caring little for the consequences.”
“You exaggerate, Uncle. We aren’t titled. And if some starving people are envious of your lavish house across from the old Bastille, it’s not because of me.”
His hands twist. “And yet you would take such extreme action to help them escape to Austria? You thought the moral scales balanced, to let them abandon their country and suffering people in order to protect their wretched lives?”
“Not Austria. Montmédy.”
Perplexity wrinkles his brow. Understanding dawns on him, lightening his expression. He knows where Montmédy is, of course, and knows the citadel is fortified and held by royalists. He throws back his head, and merry laughter bursts from his throat.
“Your hilarity seems misplaced.” I watch him, baffled, feeling as though I have missed something important. I don’t like it—the longer our conversation goes on, the more it seems like a cunning verbal chess game.
“I thought they’d flee to Austria, to beg for aid of the queen’s brother. The obvious routes would take them through Varennes, to the east, or Compiègne, in the northeast. I had people watching in both cities. I meant to find them first.” He shakes his head, eyes gleaming with ironic mirth. “I was wrong, utterly ill informed, and yet they passed through Varennes anyway.”
“What do you mean, ill informed? By whom?” My voices rises, shockingly panicky and shrill. I wish I could bite my tongue, take the sound back.
“Another of the queen’s women. She was dismissed a day or two before the event, but she suspected a flight, and had passed some information on to me. Her name was Geneviève. I assumed you must have been acquainted with her, but I found out from Eugénie that she is your good friend. I am sorry for that—mistrust and betrayal among our family is enough, without tarnishing friendships, too. But I had to hire her. I needed this information, and you weren’t providing it. You succumbed to the queen’s charms, and I could no longer trust you.”
My cheeks burn. I feel like I’ve been slapped. I wish Geneviève had told me. Perhaps she would have, on the night she confessed to the notes, if not for my strongly disapproving response. Tightness clutches at my throat.
“How did Geneviève know? I was careful to keep the plan from her.” The words leave my mouth stiffly.
“She didn’t know the exact date, but her sudden dismissal was taken as a clue. A correct one, as it turns out. She knew the queen disliked her and suspected her. Her days at Tuileries were numbered. I believe she had been watching Count von Fersen’s household as well. He was instrumental in the planning, was he not? Geneviève befriended one of his footmen.”
The more I hear, the more ludicrous it seems that any of us, Madame Campan, myself, the queen, ever believed the monarchs would truly make it to safety at Montmédy. There are no secrets in the palace, and besides, the plan was ill formed, too spontaneous and dependent on luck that they would not be recognized, that they would make good time, even though each of the royal party brought too many belongings, weighing down the too-large coach. My fingers start to tremble as anger snakes through me, coiling around my heart, spinning the blood to my ringing ears.
“You’ve taken far too much pleasure in telling me of this betrayal.” The words burn my throat, hoarse and dry. “I deceived you—I won’t deny that. It wasn’t kind of me, when we had a partnership. If I truly believed your life was at risk, as the queen’s was, perhaps I would have chosen differently. But we are still family, and I won’t listen to you taunt me any longer with my failure. I don’t need you crowing over me that you managed to outsmart me. I’d like you to leave now.”
Uncle Pierre’s face changes during my speech. As my voice gains strength and clarity, his eyes grow narrow, his mouth opening with outrage. Pink blotches appear high on his cheekbones. His manners are still too good to interrupt, but only barely.
“Taunt you? You silly girl, it’s not that simple. I’m not mocking you for the failed escape—do you even realize the gravity of what you have done? The consequences of your choice? Thanks to your deception and a damnable postman in Varennes, I came out empty-handed on this. I made promises to protect us all, and now I’ll have to explain—” He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. “I had reservations about the revolution at first, but no more. The king, and especially the queen, cannot be allowed to continue with their mindless frivolity.” His usually soft voice rings with anger, jaws opening wide with each word.
Papa walks into the room, his calm strides providing a stark foil to my uncle’s erratic hand gestures. “Pierre, you must leave our house now.”
“I spoke too harshly,” admits my uncle. “The revolution makes short tempers, even for me. I’m sorry if it sounded like I was attacking Giselle.” He glances at me, but I don’t see apology in his eyes, and his phrasing sidestepped it as well. His voice turns silky. “But I think we need to discuss this further, as a family. What Giselle did is very dangerous, for her, and for all of us. If it’s found out that she aided their attempted escape, we will all be associated with her crime.”
When Papa puts his hand on my shoulder, I feel the tension vibrating through his fingers, taut like harp strings, and I realize he is not calm at all, in spite of his smooth countenance.
“Charlotte and I are happy to be associated with our daughter, no matter what may happen. She did what she thought right, and I’m proud of her for it. If we choose to discuss it as a family, you will not be a participant. This is for immediate family only.” He pauses, grimness drawing lines around the corners of his mouth. “It shall be some time before we see each other again, Pierre.”
It must have been years since anyone resisted my uncle’s commanding attitude, refused to defer to his belief in his greater knowledge. Hearing my father’s dismissal, he actually stammers in shock, something I’ve never heard him do in my entire life. Papa easily herds him to the door, his movements steady but implacable. Uncle Pierre jams his hat over his gray hair and pauses on the threshold, throwing a sharp, broken glance toward me.
“What shall I tell Eugénie? She will want to see you.”
I want to tell him that she can visit anytime, without him, but the sting of his betrayal still burns through my veins, and I choke on the words. He used me and Geneviève both, playing us unwittingly against each other, knowing it might destroy our friendship and doing it anyway. Scorn clears my throat, lets the words loose. “Tell Eugénie the truth.” I turn my back on him, and Papa closes the door with a solid, final click.
“I’ve wanted to tell him to leave for a long time,” says Papa, sighing. A weight seems to have been lifted from his shoulders, but he also looks tired. He follows me back into the parlor and gives me a gentle smile. “Facts are not wisdom, Giselle, and you have already learned it. I’m so proud of you.”
Hope flickers in my chest, but it doesn’t take away the aching loss of losing Léon. My heart feels like shards of broken glass. “I’m not proud of myself. I learned the lesson too late.” My voice sounds as small as I feel.
“There’s no such thing,” says Papa firmly. “Better late than never—it may be often said, but it holds true. And I don’t believe you were too late, anyway. You were true to your beliefs when it came down to a difficult choice. Not many have the courage to face themselves in that way.”
I want to talk about Léon, to ask my father if he thinks Léon will ever forgive me, but a lump clogs my throat. After a moment I find other words instead. “How long have you wanted to evict Uncle Pierre from our house? I had no idea you felt that way.”
He shrugs. “You’re an adult now, Giselle, so I’ll speak frankly to you. I’ve never liked Pierre, but we got along well enough for your mother’s sake. However, even she has grown impatient with him lately. The political unrest is just the kind of thing he glories in, the precise situation to let him pretend he isn’t an obsolete, unemployed old spy, but he takes it too far. We are people, not puppets, and he’s not always right.”
“Maman is impatient with him too?” I’m surprised—they always seemed to be fairly close siblings.
“Yes. He’s always treated her with a certain degree of condescension, but she used to attribute it to the protective, slightly skewed, attitude of an older brother to his younger sister. She could handle it and didn’t mind doing so. But she resented his use of you for his games of spy work.”
“She did? Why didn’t she say anything?”
Papa smiles gently. “I will let her answer that.”
Maman crosses the threshold of the room. “I don’t mean to lurk, but I didn’t want to interrupt. I heard everything, of course. Pierre can be so loud. Giselle, you did well. Please don’t fret over it.” She folds me in her arms, a delicate, lavender-scented embrace that makes me feel like a child again, in a comforting way.
“I’ll try.” I pause. “Maman, did you want me to quit spying for Pierre?”
“I hoped you would,” she says, her voice soft and sweet. “I understood it was exciting at first—even I felt it. But as time passed, and the unrest grew, along with Pierre’s smugness, I thought it was unhealthy.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“I wanted to,” chimes in Papa. “I wanted to forbid it.” His mouth twitches in a chagrined smile. “Charlotte reminded me that being too strict and blunt would only further set you on that course. She said I should wait and let you make your own choice.” He bends his head indulgently toward me, at the same time squeezing Maman’s hand. “She was always confident you would make the right one. I should have known not to let even a flicker of doubt cross my mind.”
“Thank you.” It relieves me to know that they stand firmly by my side. In my months of being an under-tirewoman and a spy, I imagined so much pressure on myself, battering down on all sides from my family, the queen, Madame Campan, even Léon, but in the end it was myself I had to be true to. I try to smile, but sorrow anchors my face away from too much happiness, in spite of all their support. “Uncle Pierre was right, though, that I brought danger close to us. I’m sorry for that.”
“You’re unlikely to be implicated,” says Papa reassuringly. “They’ll go after people like Count von Fersen first, and blame the king and queen most of all.”
“If it ever does come back to you, my darling, you won’t be held too accountable,” says Maman quietly. “You were only a tirewoman, after all, unable to stand up to the queen.” The glint in her eyes shows the obliqueness of her statement. She doesn’t undermine my ability to make a choice, my own strong-mindedness, but it’s a possible defense. I hope I shall never have to use it.
“I hope no one is punished,” I say with foolish optimism.
“We can pray for that,” agrees Papa.
“I wish—” The words stop in my throat, crushed by vulnerability. I look at the floor and speak very carefully. “I wish Léon understood as well as you do.”
Maman strokes my hair back from my forehead like she used to do when I had a nightmare and could not sleep. “He may come to understand, in time.”
“And if he does not, he’s not worthy of you,” Papa says authoritatively.
I try to believe him, but it doesn’t erase the pain in my heart.
* * *
As the weeks pass and gossip spreads faster than a grass fire on a dry August day, I piece together most of the facts about the ill-fated flight to Varennes, only thirty miles from Montmédy.
Von Fersen himself drove the coach as far as Bondy. Unfortunately, the royal family was delayed only forty miles outside of Paris, for the necessity of coach repairs. This stroke of bad fortune meant they missed the relays at Varennes. Even if Louis hadn’t been recognized by the postmaster, it was already a serious setback in their plans. Apparently, Léonard, the queen’s hairdresser, had passed through Varennes a few hours earlier without incident, as had a few of the queen’s ladies.
Marie Antoinette had tried to persuade the wife of the mayor of Varennes to aid them in their flight, explaining that she could help restore tranquility to France by doing so. Knowing the queen as I do, I find it easy to imagine the charm she would have demonstrated, the gentle desperation, the quiet logic. She often has a rare talent for winning people to her side, in person at least, for her skill seems not to extend to crowds. However, the lady declined sorrowfully, saying that even though she loved her king, she loved her husband more, and he’d be held at fault if she let the royal family continue their frantic journey. The queen didn’t give up easily, and the party remained at Varennes for some hours. Some gossipers insinuate that she displayed her poor judgment and lack of connection to reality by fighting so long for a lost cause when the mayor clearly would not help, but I believe Marie Antoinette had another end in mind with her delays. She hoped to give the Marquis de Bouillé time to travel to Varennes with his soldiers and extricate them from the terrible situation. How she must have mourned when he never came to rescue them.
* * *
Two things happen to me in early July, bringing unwelcome reminders of the drastic ways my life has changed.
One morning, a letter is delivered to our house, addressed to me. Written in Madame Campan’s sturdy, elegant script, it invites me back into service as one of the queen’s tirewomen at Tuileries. I cringe to imagine how the palace must now feel like a prison to Marie Antoinette, in spite of its size and luxury. There is even a scrawled sentence at the end, written in rich blue ink, in the queen’s own hand. I recognize it from seeing papers on her desk. She briefly thanks me for previous service and expresses her desire to have loyal friends near her.
Maman and Papa both watch me carefully while I set the letter aside and sit near the window, thinking the offer over, although they try not to be obvious about it. Maman fusses over a roll of yarn, and Papa sharpens a pencil so thoroughly that the lead snaps.
“I’m not going back,” I tell them, to their obvious but unspoken relief. Even knowing the queen must be worried and constantly be spied upon by her enemies, that she could perhaps find comfort in having friends near, I can’t return. It might not be entirely logical, but I feel that if I go back, I will have lost Léon for nothing.
A week after the delivery of the letter, Maman persuades me to go for a walk to enjoy some fresh air. I find myself wandering listlessly down the rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine. In spite of my stern self-instructions not to think of Léon, I can’t help remembering all the times we walked along this street together, talking and laughing, reaching for each other’s hands. We met on this street even, sharing the stolen bottle of wine, our connection immediate and profound.
I step around a vegetable cart, and my heart lurches into my throat. Léon is across the street, walking with another man about the same age. I’d recognize Léon anywhere, whether I could see his face or not. I know the smooth springiness of his steps, the length of his arms, the shape of his shoulders. His hair, always just a bit curly, seems shorter, but it still clings to the back of his neck in the same way.
He wears the sleek navy coat and red-trimmed white shirt of the national guard.
Rooted to the spot, I stare at him in disbelief. Léon never had any military aspirations, and it surprises me that he joined. Hazily, I find myself agreeing with Geneviève’s prediction. He does look well in the uniform. It makes him seem taller and very alert. Too late, I realize the alertness is not merely an illusion granted by the clothing; his gaze fastens upon me. I feel it sharply, and the air clenches in my lungs. He pauses midstride, still watching me. His lips part as if to speak, but his companion says something. Léon turns to him, fast and frowning with impatience. Before he can look back, I spin on my heel and slink home. I’m not brave enough to face him.