Page 12 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
“For your apology.”
And here he thought it had offended her.
“My brother and yours, they do not apologize for their actions,” she said. Before he could dip into a gracious bow, one of her brows twitched. “Perhaps there is a spark of hope that the little brother will grow up to be the better man.”
Then she swept into the bright afternoon, her white dress reflecting the burning sun. Gilles could only chuckle. He did not know what else to do.
Tomorrow night would prove interesting.
25 May 1792
Marseille
Ma chèreSylvie,
You’ll forgive me for sending a letter before receiving a response from my last one. Maman held a dinner this evening to celebrate my arrival, and once more I long for the society of Fontainebleau. It truly is a perfect location—near enough to Paris to attend the ballet and otherwise partake in its merits, but far enough to enjoy the comforts of the country and not be bothered when thesans-culottesmake mischief. Though I must admit, I have always found it interesting that the Jacobins fear thesans-culottesas much as theroyalistes. I suppose it shows that any ideals can be taken to zealous extremes.
Of the two families who accepted my mother’s invitations, only one arrived—the Poulin family. We received hastily scrawled excuses from the Linville family. Neither Maman nor I could read what Madame Linville wrote, and when she called to inquire after their welfare, they had vanished. The windows were boarded up, servants gone. No trace that anyone had been there for several days. We can only guess where they have gone, but it is not so difficult to determine the cause.
Maman is devastated, as Madame Linville has long been one of her dearest friends. Monsieur Linville used to spend late nights discussing the deplorable state of the country with Papa. He was much more outspoken than Papa in public. More than once he drew the wrath of the crowds, but they kept to smashing in his windows and shouting at his household. Papa says he had been quite vocal of late in his denunciation of the massacres atla glacièrein Avignon last year. I can only imagine the harassment and threats the Linvilles must have suffered before their departure. I wonder if they have stayed on the continent or gone to the Americas.
Émile was ecstatic, of course, as he hates the Linvilles. Even now he is cursing them as “cowardlyémigrés” before his enthusiastic audience, which consists of the Poulins’ oldest daughter, who is smitten with him, and the Étienne brothers, who are equally smitten.
Yes, I have the misfortune of spending this evening with the Étiennes yet again, which is why I am writing this letter rather than engaging in the usual post dinner conversation. The young people are gathered in one corner with their drinks, as though sitting in one of their Jacobin cafés, discussing things they know nothing about in serious tones. Mademoiselle Poulin is soaking in every word, never mind that her family does not side with the revolution.
I will say, I did find a small source of pleasure in the evening. I was able to compare the two Étienne brothers, a rather fascinating distraction, especially after an encounter I had with the younger one yesterday at the factory. I had gone to fetch my father after Maman’s distress at the Linvilles’ departure. And can you believe it, Gilles apologized for his attempt to kiss me in Papa’s office Saturday last. Of course, moments later he proceeded to explain in condescending tones the process of soap making, as though I hadn’t grown up in asavonnerie. He still takes after his brother far too much for me to ever like him, but his attempt at reconciliation astounded me. Have you ever heard Émile apologize for his boorish bravado?
Gilles follows Maxence and Émile as though they were Greek philosophers with the wisdom of ages. No wonder Émile so easily persuaded him to make a game of trying to kiss me. And though he matches them for brains, if not for wit, I cannot see the younger Étienne among their posse of medical students at Montpellier. The shadow of a swarthy mariner has not completely left him. I better imagine him on the deck of a ship than in a lecture hall. He is too broad through the shoulders to make a good doctor.
And now I am being called away. I shall try to write more tonight. Not that I will have any more interesting news for you, my dear cousin. If you were here, I would make a wager on whether Mademoiselle Poulin leaves this house unkissed tonight.
Mademoiselle Daubin had hardly spoken to Gilles all evening, even with Émile’s expert maneuvering to get Gilles seated beside her at dinner. Gilles only hoped Émile would soon tire of the game of throwing them together. Now the young lady sat across the room from them at her writing desk, shooting disapproving glances in his direction.
“The National Assembly is calling for thirty-one new battalions to help with the war,” Émile said, sipping his drink. “The time to make up our minds is now.”
Mademoiselle Poulin’s little mouth formed a perfect “O.” She fluttered her fan quickly.
“It is not so easy a decision as you claim,” Gilles insisted. Not that he would shirk if called upon, but the decision of marching to war should not be made lightly.
Émile scoffed. “Where is your patriotism, Gilles? If a man is not willing to lay down his life in defense of freedom, he does not deserve it.”
Gilles shifted in his seat on the window ledge. Of course he believed that. But human life was hardly an expendable resource.
Mademoiselle Daubin’s merry hum, once againSur le pont d’Avignon, floated across the room. No one else paid it any mind, not even the Daubin and Poulin parents in carefree discussion near the hearth. Was she lost in thought and mindlessly humming as she wrote her letter, or was she trying to drown out their discussion of war?
“You had best take care with voicing such opinions, Gilles,” Maxence growled, earning him the complete attention of the wide-eyed young lady at his side. Gilles had little doubt his brother would succeed at getting that kiss from her tonight, along with Émile’s twelvelivres. “You do not want to sound like Lafayette.”
Émile pretended to gag at the mention of the general.
“It is not traitorous to think of one’s family and livelihood,” Gilles said, swirling the contents of his glass. His stomach had soured at the talk of the recently declared war on Prussia and Austria, and he had drunk very little.
“Perhaps if a man has a family,” Émile said. “But when last I checked, you had neither wife nor child.” He shook his head. “Who ever heard of a general so afraid of confrontation as Lafayette is? That man is headed for thelouisette, mark my words. He must be in league with the royals, if not Austria and Prussia.”
“Louisette?” Gilles asked. One of the domestics brought in the tea service and set it up beside Madame Daubin. She called to her daughter, who grudgingly put away her pen and blotted her letter. After hastily folding the page, Mademoiselle Daubin stuffed it into her pocket and rose. Who could she be writing to in the middle of an evening held in her honor?
“Thelouisetteis an ingenious machine the Assembly has approved for executions,” Maxence said. His eyes took on a strange glint Gilles rarely saw. From him, anyhow. Their father always got the same look the moment he decided to chase a merchantman at sea. “I am surprised you have not heard of it. I’m certain I’ve mentioned it. The device was largely successful when they debuted it last month.”
Gilles shook his head. He must have missed Maxence’s news.
