Page 18 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
“And if enemies of the state gain control of Marseille’s ports, they could starve the whole of France.” Martel nodded, looking more like a wizened leader than the youngest man in their section of the Club.
Gilles ducked his head to investigate what he’d kicked. A black leather book lay open and facedown on the floor, a few pages crumpled at the center. He slid it out. Evening light pouring through the high windows above the entrance illuminated an etched cover. He turned it over to find pages and pages of Latin text. Some sort of prayer book. How had this been missed when the church was ransacked after the start of the revolution?
“We need new recruits, and we need them today.” Martel circled a bust of an American diplomat whose name Gilles could not recall. They’d set it upon a crate at the front where the bust of Mirabeau, a leader of the revolution, often sat. Their muse of liberty for the evening. “Not tomorrow. Not next week. Today. Someday soon, men will be called up to fight for the freedom of France, and who will protect our home if there are not brothers-at-arms to carry on the duties of the Jacobins in our absence?”
Gilles nearly threw the book back under the pew. As a Jacobin, that should have been his response. But its battered binding and creased leaves gave it the look of a whimpering puppy. It was only a book. And from a religion well on its way to dying in this country. He did not need to tread on one of the last relics of religion in Marseille.
Glancing around, he tucked it between him and the end of the bench, out of sight of the other members. When he locked up the building, he would find a place for it. Then someone else could decide its fate.
“Étienne?”
Gilles straightened and met Martel’s quizzical eye. “Je m’excuse. What was asked?”
“It was suggested you could accompany me on my campaign to Hautes-Alpes,” his friend said.
Hautes-Alpes? That was more than a day’s journey. He hesitated. “I ... I’m certain an arrangement can be made.” When had Martel decided to lead a campaign himself? Monsieur Daubin would not like Gilles asking for a week’s leave to travel, especially if he was doing so to recruit Jacobin followers.
His mind churned as Martel ended the meeting. With Père departing soon, that would mean abandoning Maman. True, she had Florence during the day. But at night? Max was a day’s journey away and therefore not helpful. Père had no qualms leaving her alone for months at a time. It wasn’t as though she needed Gilles there, but the proposition left a bad taste in his mouth.
He rose with the others, tucking the book under his arm between his jacket and waistcoat. Men filed out of the dim church and spat at the feet of a defaced saint near the door. Several donned red liberty caps like the ones thesans-culotteswore.
Gilles waited until the rest of the club members had exited before shuffling toward Martel, who was moving the plaster bust from the front of the room. He placed it in a row with busts of Rousseau, Mirabeau, and otherrévolutionnaireheroes used to decorate their meetings.
“Thank you for volunteering to go,” Martel said, shifting the bust into the perfect line.
Volunteering? Someone else had volunteered him. And Gilles had been too caught up with the silly book to hear who had. “I wished to speak to you on that. How long are we to be gone?” A week would be difficult, but if he worked extra hours before and after, perhaps Daubin would not get so cross.
Martel brushed his hands against his trousers. “Three weeks to a month, I should think. Enough time to establish clubs and get them used to the way of the Jacobins.”
Gilles’s brows shot up. “A month?”
“No sacrifice is too small forla patrie,” Martel said with a shrug.
“And ... and your employer has agreed to this?”
“Bien sûr. He knows the importance of these campaigns.” He studied Gilles. “Will Daubin allow you to leave?”
They walked down the aisle toward the door. The tome under his arm started to slip, and he squeezed it tighter. It would not do to drop a book of religion in front of Martel while convincing him the campaign scheme would not work for him.
“I do not think I would have a job when I returned,” Gilles said. “What’s more, I cannot leave my mother.”
Martel snorted. “Your mother can survive on her own. You know that.” He stopped at the door and crossed his arms. “You must decide whether your work is more important to you than the cause.”
If he didn’t have the book smashed against his ribs, Gilles would have thrown up his hands. “My work is paying for schooling.”
“As is mine,” Martel said, “and yet I am leaving.”
“I do not hesitate because I want the schooling for myself,” Gilles insisted. “I wish to help others. Is there only one way to serve the nation, according to the Jacobins?”
Martel did not answer. After a moment, he spat at the statue’s feet. “You are a Jacobin, Étienne. Do what you see fit.” He marched off into the evening without any more of a farewell.
Gilles sighed as he watched his friend’s spindly frame pass a woman in a brown dress before turning the corner. The revolution needed men with Martel’s enthusiasm. And yet, Gilles wondered if too much enthusiasm could ever prove detrimental. He retreated inside, pulling the book from under his arm. His friend was not the most sympathetic of people, even on his amiable days. Martel set a high standard for his own conduct, and he expected everyrévolutionnaireto adhere to it as well. Many days Gilles could not meet the man’s standards.
Red panels stretched across the walls at the apse of the church, some of the only ornaments not vandalized. Gilles studied them as he made his way to the altar at the front, which hadn’t yet been removed but had lost its cloth. He crouched behind it and slid the book to the back corner of the shelf underneath.
There. No one would find it unless they were looking for it.
Gilles stood and leaned in to blow out the candles sitting atop the altar, when a movement at the door made him pause. Was Martel back to argue?
