JULY 1791
“There’s a letter for you.” Papa hands me an envelope sealed with an untidy blob of wax. The envelope is a bit tattered, one corner bent, as if someone carried it in their pocket for a while before sending it. I recognize the elaborate curls of Geneviève’s writing at once, but it surprises me just the same. It’s been a month since her dismissal, since Varennes, and I feared our paths had diverged forever.
I do miss her, in spite of everything. We parted very suddenly, and so soon after the shocking revelation of her role in the anonymous notes. I don’t want to leave things unresolved, and it occurs to me that Geneviève probably doesn’t know I’d also been spying on the queen. My uncle would never have told her. He’d have preferred to keep us both in ignorance, quietly comparing the information we obediently fetched back to him. He used us both.
The wax crumbles under my fingers, and I slide the paper out of its grimy envelope. The tone of the letter recalls Geneviève’s animated voice to my mind, and carries the same wistful quality that I feel. She asks if we might meet at the Champs de Mars in a couple of days.
I miss you, my friend. I thought I would find you in the Tuileries gardens one day, but after the pathetic flight attempt of the monarchs, I hear you are no longer in the queen’s service either. One of the footmen told me when I saw him near Café du Foy.
I wonder if it’s the same footman who helped her monitor Count von Fersen’s plans as well, but it doesn’t matter. It’s over now.
Briefly, I explain the contents of the note to my parents, who are making little effort to disguise their curiosity.
A worried line creases Maman’s forehead. “Are you certain? She won’t like that you took the queen’s side.”
“I won’t tell her. I’ll pretend I knew nothing about it.” My experience with Léon has filled me with caution. “I plan to never tell anyone of my role in the flight to Varennes, ever. And I do want to see her. We were very close while working at the palace, and I miss my friend.”
“I understand,” says Maman.
“Be careful,” says Papa. “There have been riots lately.”
I manage a wry smile. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.” How odd, that riots should have become almost an ordinary event.
On the morning of July seventeenth, I dress myself in tricolor, preparing to meet Geneviève at the Champs de Mars. I’ve mostly been wearing old housedresses in muted grays and browns while holed up at home, and the boldness of the scarlet sash and the brilliant blue trim on my white dress feels startlingly bright.
Geneviève outdoes me in terms of revolutionary garb, however. In spite of the exuberant crowd milling around the Champs de Mars, I spot her almost at once at our agreed-upon meeting place, in the southeast corner, a little away from most of the people. A jaunty tricolor ribbon festoons her hair, and she has sewn red-white-and-blue-striped trim along the sleeves, hem, and waist of her dress.
“Giselle, how lovely to see you.” Her exclamation sounds joyful, and her eyes glitter with all their old roguishness. She squeezes my hand, brief but fierce, tugging me closer to her and away from the meandering steps of a group of middle-aged women moving past us, arguing loudly over a petition. She has started using a new scent, I notice, something green and peppery, very different from the lily perfume she favored before.
“Hello, Geneviève.”
She lets go of my hand, her exuberance fading into awkwardness. We stare at each other in silence.
“I confess, I’m glad you’re not still in the employ of the Citoyenne,” she says eventually, “Did she ask you back after Varennes? I bet she did, even after she turned tail and ran, leaving you without a job.” Her nose wrinkles with scorn.
Relief settles over me like a warm cloak. Geneviève doesn’t know that I helped to orchestrate the escape. Or if she does, she’s going to pretend ignorance, and that’s good enough for me right now. I need my friend.
Her smile wavers until I grin back at her, and then all of a sudden everything feels normal between us again.
“As if I would return after that. I’m rather sorry I had the night off when they fled. I’d have liked to witness all the panic and flabbergasted stammering in the morning, when the lady-in-waiting went to wake the queen and found that great big bed empty. Afterward, once they had returned to Tuileries, Madame Campan did write me a letter, asking me back.”
“And clearly, you declined. I’m glad,” says Geneviève. “It feels right that neither of us serve her anymore, when she tried to run away from it all. How cowardly—you know, I never liked her much, but I did think she had a sort of stiff-backed royal pride. I must have been mistaken. It seems at odds with the attempted escape.”
“I thought so too.” I am afraid to say too much on the subject. Greater verbosity increases the chance for me to slip up in the lie. I nod seriously to counteract my lack of elaboration, which seems to be enough for Geneviève. She slants a glance toward me. “I nearly forgot—you had an assignation with Léon that night, did you not? Did you go to the inn I suggested?” Her face is bright with girlish curiosity.
“Yes,” I say unwillingly. It feels like talking through ice. “I don’t want to talk about him, though.”
She pats my shoulder, clucking with sympathy. “What happened? You two seemed deeply in love. I never expected you to call off your wedding. Léon simply told Étienne that the two of you wanted different things, and refused to speak more of it. Lord, the man can scowl. Even Étienne hardly dared inquire further.”
Léon certainly can glower with notable fierceness. The memory of his thundercloud expression and black eyes during our last meeting frequently slips into my mind, especially at night when I restlessly fail to sleep. “He’s right. We’re very different people, as it turns out.” The words are heavy to push from my throat, and fall into the air with a clipped, final tone.
“And you won’t say anything more either?”
“No.”
“Well, maybe someday you’ll wish to talk of it. When the heartache has eased. Or when the two of you are reconciled?” Her small, hopeful smile withers when I shake my head. “I should warn you, then: Léon and Étienne may be here today, somewhere. They’re both on duty as members of the national guard, and there seems to be a number of them here at the Champs de Mars this afternoon.” She hesitates, voice growing even gentler. “Did you know he joined the national guard? I think it must have been after you ended your engagement.”
“I know. I saw him once, on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine. He was wearing his uniform.” I clear my throat, as if doing so will magically infuse my voice with a carefree tone, erasing the miserable edge I can’t quite keep out. “Remember when you guessed he would look well in one? You were right.”
“Did you speak?” Her eyes grow wide. Her wish for our reconciliation is touching, or at least it would be if I didn’t know our relationship was battered beyond repair.
“No,” I say to the ground. “I avoided him.”
“Oh.” She is quiet for a moment. “Well, let’s not talk about it now. I understand you don’t want to.” Her tone brightens as she seizes onto a new topic. “You must have heard the announcement this morning, that Louis will remain king of France under a constitutional monarchy?”
“Yes. I was surprised.” The king is greatly despised for his perceived attempt to abandon his people, and the queen is hated even more. Many people, including myself, had speculated that he would be removed from office entirely. His power had been greatly reduced by the constitution and the political upheaval, and his title was technically abolished, but he still holds a significant role as the head of state. People can’t seem to stop thinking of him as the king, in spite of the new laws, myself included. It’s interesting to think that he might yet lose the position. Rumors had been flying that his brother, the Comte de Provence, would be the new ruler instead, or that the dauphin would succeed his father with the help of revolutionary advisers, given his tender age.
Geneviève knows each of these rumors but tosses them aside. “Why do we need a king at all? What if the Assembly governed the nation?”
“A radical idea,” I say doubtfully, but it is an intriguing one, too.
“The Americans are doing it,” Geneviève points out. “Although it hasn’t really been very long yet since their revolution. I suppose it’s early to say if the system is effective. I have high hopes for a republic, though.”
“Like the Romans.”
“Yes. The fashions are taking a hint from the Romans; why not government, too?”
“Maybe we’ll even get bathhouses,” I joke, but Geneviève is not easy to scandalize and perks up at the thought.
“I should like to bathe in a pool with a fountain. It sounds very decadent. Anyway, back to serious matters. Not everyone is pleased with the announcement. They think Louis has had his last chance to lead the country. Citoyen Desmoulins and Citoyen Danton are going around with a petition to call for the removal of the king.”
I remember meeting Desmoulins at the Café du Foy. He quoted Cicero and seemed very idealistic. Danton, I have never met, but his name is a prominent one in Jacobin circles, and his roughhewn features are frequently sketched in the papers.
“Where?” I ask curiously.
“Here—at the Champs de Mars. That’s why it’s so crowded. Isn’t it lucky we came here today? We may see history in the making.”
“We’ve done that already, at Versailles.”
She laughs, breathless and exhilarated. “I know. These are exciting times, Giselle. Come on. Let’s walk around and see if we can find them. Do you think women will be allowed to sign the petition?”
As she sets off toward the bustle of people, moving quickly, I follow with rather less enthusiasm. I still believe that change must correct our country’s many social and economic problems—no matter how much Léon believes I’ve changed sides, it’s not true. However, I’ve already been caught in the turmoil of two riots, and have no desire to be whirled into the midst of another. As Geneviève and I stalk through the moving crowd, twisting between clusters of people, I hear talk of the petition all around me, and people shouting about the monarchs, varying from declarations of loyalty to those of harsh castigation. The mood of the crowd seems volatile, and I begin to think that Geneviève and I ought to leave the area. She nods distractedly, eyes scanning the sea of people. “All right. After we see about the petition, we can go wherever you like.”
It doesn’t take long to cross paths with Desmoulins and Danton. As the two of them are gesturing wildly from the top of some steps and shouting out impassioned speeches to reel in more petitioners, we’d have to be blind and deaf not to notice them. The crowd surges around them, roiling like bubbles in a hot kettle, and making nearly as much noise as the two revolutionaries with cries of mingled praise and arguments. Geneviève and I keep our distance.
She bites her lip, looking a little crestfallen. “It doesn’t look like we’ll get close enough to sign. Maybe if we wait awhile?”
“I don’t think so.” Grabbing her arm, I point toward another face familiar to us, the Marquis de Lafayette, flanked by the national guard under his command. “They’re marching toward the petitioners, and they look grim.”
“I suppose they’ll break up the crowd. I saw Étienne briefly just after lunch, and he said they already dispersed the petitioners this morning. It didn’t stop them for long, of course. I think there must be twice as many now. He was rather disappointed—he approves of the petition, but he still has to obey commands from Lafayette, who leads the Guard.”
“We should leave.” Tightening my fingers on Geneviève’s arm, I drag her away a few paces. Even though the crowd seems to be growing increasingly hostile at the sight of the national guard, she moves reluctantly.
“I want to watch,” she says.
“We can from farther away,” I bargain, moving faster. We have little time to waste. The situation escalates tangibly around us, taking my heart rate with it. My pulse hammers and my nerves jolt. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a nearby petitioner, mouth curled into a snarl, bend to pick up a loose stone. “It’s going to be a riot in moment.”
“Not this time,” says Geneviève, but her brows quirk with doubt. “Where’s Étienne?” Her gaze flicks past the press of people, peering between their heads and above their shoulders. “I hope he’ll be all right.”
Lafayette’s voice rises above the hubbub, recognizable because it’s rich with command. He volleys orders like one accustomed to absolute obedience. The members of the national guard with him surge forward, muskets raised toward the sky like empty flagstaffs. They march toward the petitioners, intending to scatter them away. I think I see Léon, and my heart lurches at the sight of his dark glittering eyes, winged brows, and long proud nose, but then the sweep of the crowd snatches him from my view, and Geneviève yanks on my hand, pulling me out of the way of a rampaging man, red-faced and angry with the presence of the national guard. I feel bereft, though I saw him so quickly that it may not have been Léon at all, only a desperate conjuring of my lonely imagination.
Lafayette’s voice rises in another order for the crowd to disperse. A few people near Geneviève and me obey him, and we move along with them, putting distance between us and the more fervent petitioners. Most of them root themselves to the spot, though, facing the national guard with rebellion. Lafayette commands them to leave again, and a stone flies through the air, bouncing roughly off the shoulder of one of the soldiers. More rocks follow, hurled with vicious strength by the riled-up protesters.
“Warning shots!” yells Lafayette. Before the echo of his stark command fades, the muskets crackle skyward, the sharp rumble leaving trails of smoke in its wake.
“They’ll depart now,” says Geneviève, but she herself seems frozen on the spot, staring fearfully, fascinated by the mad spectacle and fearful for Étienne. I understand her expression, because I feel the same way. I scan endlessly for Léon, but the soldiers all look the same from here.
The crowd doesn’t disperse, and instead crushes forward, infuriated. More stones soar through the air, many of them finding meaty targets. One of the soldiers visibly grabs his head and stumbles, and Geneviève and I squeeze each other’s hands, both praying it was not Étienne or Léon who was struck.
In the noise and the panic, I can’t hear Lafayette’s next words, but his voice rises and falls. The muskets spit fire and thunder again, and it takes me a disbelieving second to comprehend that the smoke spirals low, not circling into the sky like before, and the shrill pitch of screams harshly contrasts with the deep sound of the gunfire. Several petitioners stagger and fall. I watch as one man’s white shirt slowly turns to match his red coat before his companions grab his shoulders and drag him from my view.
“We have to go.” I turn to Geneviève, but she doesn’t need my warning, and our feet already take us farther away from the scene. My hand grips hers so tight that I feel like my fingers will be stiff forever, and my heart hammers so hard, I fancy I can see my pulse in the corners of my eyes.
“Oh God,” whimpers Geneviève, half-running with me alongside her. Gunfire snaps again. “All those people. Étienne—”
“We’ll find them later,” I vow, quickening our pace until we’re running, our skirts twisting around our legs, tendrils of our hair flying like flags of retreat.
When we stop at last, our lungs heave and Geneviève’s face gleams with perspiration, almost red enough to match her hair. My skin feels wet too, and my hair clings to my forehead.
“I can’t run anymore. I need to rest,” Geneviève says, and gasps. We stagger over to a wooden bench near a green hedge and collapse into the rough seat. I want to talk about what just happened, but I don’t know where to start or what to say. Geneviève must have the same struggle, because she leans her head back, though her eyes remain open and her face has a pinched look, and says nothing.
“My parents will be worried,” I say at last. “I ought to get home.”
“Mine too,” she says. Neither of us move.
“When you see Étienne, will you ask him about Léon?”
“If I see him.” She licks her lips. “If he’s alive.”
I sit up straight, rounding on her. “Of course he is. He’s strong and brave, and he’ll be fine.” She looks comforted by my optimistic words, thankfully.
“I’ll ask,” she promises.
In spite of knowing we ought to go straight home, we stay on the bench for a long time, dazed. We find words, eventually, to cautiously speak of the terrible event we witnessed, and narrowly escaped.
“A massacre,” says Geneviève.
“A catastrophe,” I add.
“Étienne supported the petitioners, in his heart. To be forced to fire upon them…” She fades into silence again.
I don’t know Léon’s mind on this, not now, but I suspect he felt the same way. “They thought they were helping the revolution by joining the national guard. Léon always admired Lafayette for his role in the American Revolution.”
“So did Étienne. How things have changed.” She sighs heavily.
Finally, when the setting sun makes angled beams of light and velvet shadows, we leave our strange haven of the bench and start for home, walking quickly.
“Can we stop at the Soleil d’Or on the way?” asks Geneviève. “It’s a public house on rue Saint-Antoine, not far from the old Bastille. I understand if you don’t want to. It’s just that Étienne frequents it, and if he was released from duty for the day, I think he may have gone straight there.”
“I’ll come with you.” Even though the idea of talking to Léon frightens me, lest he accuse me of being a royalist, of being a liar, I must know he’s safe.
We lurk outside the door of the Soleil d’Or, uncertain if we should go in. I’ve never been to a place that sells liquor, and I feel awkward. I’m not sure it’s proper. The few women inside seem to be accompanied by men.
“I’ve never gone without Étienne,” says Geneviève, squinting through the open doorway as a man in a black hat passes through.
I lift my chin, feigning confidence. “Let’s just go in. Walk confidently, like you go there every day, and likely no one will question us.”
“Maybe,” she says dubiously.
“Geneviève?”
She whirls around at the sound of her name and dashes straight into Étienne’s arms as he approaches the public house. His companion slows at his side and turns his head toward me. I recognize him instantly, with a flare of joy I can’t suppress.
Léon’s face is paler than I have ever seen it, and somehow looks thinner, the skin drawn tight with tension. His dark hair sticks up at the back, as though he’s clutched at it with restless fingers. As I watch, he drags them through his hair, the movement distracted and anguished. He watches Geneviève embracing Étienne, murmuring to him so rapidly as to be incomprehensible, and then his eyes dart to me, and to the ground.
I approach him slowly, like one would a skittish horse. “Are you all right, Léon?” My voice sounds more tremulous than I would like.
He looks up at me, and his lustrous brown eyes are filled with shadows, which spill all across his features, curling around under his eyes in purple streaks, making his cheekbones stark against his pale skin. Without thinking, I close the gap between us and gently put my arms around him. For a split second, as his shoulders tense under my hands, I think he’ll push me away and I brace myself for the humiliation. His breath empties in a shuddering sigh, and he hugs me back, wrapping his arms around me so hard that I’m wrenched closer to him.
“I killed a man, Giselle.” His voice sounds hoarse, and his lips are crushed to my neck, as if he could muffle the words and make them somehow not true.
My hand strokes circles on his back, sliding up to his hair. “Sh,” I whisper. “It’s not your fault. You had to obey the command.”
He draws back enough to see my face, his gaze piercing mine. “I wish it were so simple. The order was given, and I obeyed. I pulled the trigger. I watched the blood spill from a man’s heart, and I wished I’d never fired. Even if I aimed badly instead, it would’ve been better.…”
I cup his cheeks in my hands, looking into his beloved face, wishing he would not feel such torment, loving him because he does. My Léon is an idealist, a craftsman, not a soldier. He is still the same man I loved. And betrayed, whispers something cruel in me, but I tug the painful thought free like a splinter.
“I don’t even have very good aim.” He sounds confused. “If it were target practice, I would have called it a lucky shot. Lucky!”
“You were a soldier acting under command. It wasn’t your fault,” I say again, although I know it won’t make him feel differently. I don’t know if there is anything I can say to ease his spirits, but I keep trying.
“I can’t—I don’t know—oh, Giselle.” His voice cracks under the struggle to find the words to explain his current torment, and then he gives up. His eyes close as his arms squeeze my waist, and then his mouth crashes down on mine. It is not a soft kiss, nor gentle. It’s desperate and fierce, and even as my mouth opens under his and I moan at the feel of his tongue stroking mine, I know he’s seeking forgetfulness, something to momentarily banish the sight of the blood from his mind.
He nips my lower lip a little too hard, and it makes me squeak in protest. He lifts his head, though I don’t want him to. My hands still curl around the back of his neck.
“Sorry,” he whispers. Red flushes his cheeks now, and his eyes gleam too bright. “I shouldn’t have used you like that.”
“You didn’t use me. You can’t take advantage of the willing. I want to help you, Léon.”
He does not speak, and something in his expression softens, triggering a leap of hope inside me.
Behind us, Étienne’s voice carries loudly. “We can blame l’Autrichienne for this, too, if you ask me. She’s probably got Lafayette in her pocket, just like von Fersen and dozens of others.…”
“You can’t help me,” says Léon. His voice has gone as hard as granite again. “I’m sorry.” He releases me and stalks away so quickly that he might as well have shoved me away.
My heart cracks anew and my cheeks burn painfully hot. Blinking hard, refusing to let anyone see a single tear fall from my eyes, I go to Geneviève.
“I saw you kissing—engaged again?” asks Geneviève brightly, before she sees my face. “Never mind.”
“I’m going home. I’ll see you soon—be careful, all right?” I turn on my heel and walk as fast as I can before she can respond. I need to be alone.
* * *
Over the following days, the newspapers have varying accounts of the number of casualties in the massacre at the Champs de Mars. Some wrote that a dozen had been killed, others that the dead numbered fifty.
“Some of them may be recording injuries as casualties,” says Papa.
“To make it sound more disastrous?” I ask.
“Perhaps. It could also simply be poor reporting.”
One thing all the papers have in common, except any royalist publications, is that they roundly blame Lafayette for the disaster. As the leader of the national guard, he already faced some blame for the king and queen’s escape attempt, and now that he ordered the Guards to fire on a crowd of petitioners, he looked like the most devout of royalists, and was condemned by all revolutionaries.