AUGUST 1792
When I go to the watchmaker’s shop in the evening, I’m told Léon is in his room above the store. I hesitate before knocking. It’s one thing to speak to him at the shop counter, quite another to disturb his privacy.
Opening the door, he stares, clearly surprised to see me. I take the opportunity to study him, noticing the smudged shadows under his eyes and the new extra prominence of his cheekbones. He isn’t too thin, exactly, but food prices have been erratic and many people are missing a few pounds for it, including myself. Léon looks like he’d benefit from a hearty meal and a long, restful night. An urge to stroke his hair while he lies with his head in my lap sweeps over me, and it fills me with sadness for the lost intimacy.
“I haven’t borrowed any books lately,” he says, referring to my last unexpected visit to see him. “You must be here for another reason.”
I give a tiny nod. “Yes. I need to speak with you.”
“Come in, then.” He steps away from the door, sweeping his arm to invite me inside.
“I expected more argument,” I admit, surveying the small room. The star-patterned quilt draped over the bed is a little rumpled, and judging by the lamplight nearby and the ragged copy of Le Morte d’Arthur on the dresser beside the bed, Léon had been reading before I came in.
His eyes look dark and unreadable. Finally his mouth quirks in a rueful half smile. “So did I.” The smile fades as he notices my Bastille necklace, untucked from the collar of my white gown. He reaches out and touches the chain so lightly that I feel the heat of his fingertip more than the brush of his skin. A wave of emotion rocks through me: the burn of heartbreak, a shock of hope, a frisson of desire. I lick my lips, feeling my breath grow suddenly shallow and rapid as my heartbeat accelerates.
He looks up from the necklace, staring into my face with intensity. “You still wear this?”
“I do.”
Léon flicks a glance back to the necklace and then to the floor. When his gaze returns to me, his aloofness has returned, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “It adds to your costume. You look quite the revolutionary lady.”
I wear a long-sleeved white dress decorated with tricolor embroidery, the popular style I’d worn long before our engagement ended, but the sharpness of his tone implies I’m faking it, a royalist in disguise as a revolutionary, and it hurts.
“The necklace is one of my most treasured possessions.” The stark truth of my answer strikes him, I think, for he turns away, hiding his expression, before sitting on the bed.
“Be seated in the chair, if you wish. Tell me what you came for.” He folds his arms across his chest, and the posture highlights the lean muscles of his forearms, exposed by his casually rolled sleeves.
I want to hear more about him, but I sense he won’t welcome personal questions, and besides, Eugénie is relying on me. “My uncle has been arrested on suspicion of anti-revolutionary activity. The charges are false. He’s not a royalist.”
“Are you certain? Perhaps it runs in the family.” His lip curls slightly.
I rise from my perched seat on the edge of the hard chair, only realizing I’ve done it when I find myself prowling forward toward him, scowling. “I’m certain. Like you, he was disgusted by my role in Varennes. Even without knowing this, you should never doubt his interests in the revolution. He initiated my spy work, and it turned out he had Geneviève working for him too.” Dimly, I see that this information shocks him, but I’m too angry at the jab to pause. “Léon, I want to apologize for lying to you. I should never have done it, and I’ve regretted it every moment since. But I won’t apologize for doing what I thought was right. You and my uncle have both treated me as though the matter was something to be simply compartmentalized and understood, like the colors black and white. But I was the one seeing the royal family day after day, witnessing the most intimate moments of their lives. I watched the queen weep with dread; I saw her children frozen with terror. Maybe I should have held myself back and tried not to care about them, but in the end I made the only choice I could. Maybe it wasn’t the right one, but it was mine.”
He rises too, standing so close to me that I feel the heat of his body and I have to tilt my head to stare furiously into his eyes.
“Is this what you came for? To shout at me for being angry at you?” The shadow in his voice only makes its soft rumble more dangerous.
“No.” I look down, chagrined. “I didn’t mean to say that, but it feels good to have it out. I came to ask if you can get me an interview with Robespierre.”
His brows arch nearly to his hairline. “Why?”
“I’m going to confess that my uncle hired me to spy on the queen. It should prove his loyalty to the revolution.”
Léon abruptly paces to the window, then back to my side, his movements tense. “It’s dangerous, Giselle.”
It’s the first time he has said my name, and hearing it makes a spark leap through me. “Every day is dangerous and unpredictable,” I say, and it comes out more harshly than I intended. “I went into Tuileries and saw the gory aftermath. It was burned into my eyes for days after. I know of the danger.”
“It will bring your name to the attention of some of the most powerful men in Paris. Fervent revolutionaries prone to suspicion and drastic actions.”
“Even so, it must be done.”
He is quiet for so long that I think he’ll refuse. I shift, preparing to leave, to think of another plan.
“All right,” says Léon at last. “I’ll come with you.”
“That’s not necessary.” My mouth forms the words stiffly. “I know you don’t want to be near me, that you won’t forgive me. You’ve made it clear enough.”
“No, Giselle.” The dark glitter of his eyes matches his forceful tone. “I’m not offering because manners dictate it. I’m insisting because you have a better chance of convincing them if I’m there to vouch for your story. I’ve been too busy of late to go to Café du Foy, but I’ve had enough philosophical discussions with Robespierre and Marat and Desmoulins that they have at least a small measure of trust in me. You need me there.”
“I—Thank you.” My independent pride deflated, I lower my voice. “When will be convenient for you to visit Robespierre?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll get the afternoon off at the shop downstairs. We need to hurry. The jails are crowded—they’ll start using the guillotine soon, just to make room.”
The vicious, practical truth in his words makes me shiver. “I’ll meet you here after lunch, then?”
Léon nods. “Wear a dress with a slightly lower collar, and the necklace. Let them see you wearing part of the Bastille.”
“I will.” I linger in the doorway, feeling awkward. “Well … good night. Enjoy your reading.” I gesture toward Le Morte d’Arthur.
He shrugs. “I’ve read it many times, but it’s comforting. One can’t read Rousseau and Voltaire all the time.”
“Of course not.” A tiny smile springs to my lips. This is the most natural way he’s spoken to me during our meeting, and it makes me happy to end it this way.