Page 28 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
“Fivelivres,” he whispered.
Maxence scowled. “Ten at least. With this many men around?”
“I gave you twelve for the Poulin girl. This one’s not worth that much.”
Gilles watched the young woman in the doorway. He couldn’t see more than a profile of her face. Was she a servant or the host’s relative? His stomach twisted. Weeks ago he would have jumped to his brother’s defense and insisted on tenlivresfor the kissing wager. But Mademoiselle Daubin’s disapproving glare and Maman’s disappointed glance filled his mind. This girl looked near the same age as Mademoiselle Poulin from the dinner party.
“Brothers and friends!” the rotund host called. Conversations quieted through the room. “There is word from Paris.”
Gilles pushed himself onto the balls of his feet to see around Maxence. He scanned the room for reactions, but most simply watched the front of the room with impassive faces. A silent thrum of electricity extended through the chamber. Gilles’s pulse increased to match it.
“The National Assembly has called on the sons of France to come to her aid. Austria and Prussia knock at our door, threatening to march toward Paris and plungela patrieback into the darkness of despotism.” The man drew a folded page from the pocket of his coat. “I have here a copy of a letter sent to the mayor of Marseille from our esteemed brother and fellowMarseillais, Charles Barbaroux.”
Barbaroux’s name rippled through the crowd. The man was barely older than Maxence and had already made a name for himself in Paris as a passionate defender of liberty and steadfast opponent of the king.
The host lifted the letter high, reciting rather than reading. “Send to Paris six hundred men who know how to die.”
A jolt shot down Gilles’s spine, frigid as a northern sea. Men who knew how to die. Members of the crowd looked to their friends. Some nodded slowly.
Nodded? Gilles shifted, trying to keep his focus on the man at the front. Gilles had faced death. For years he’d run gunpowder from the magazine to the upper deck in his father’s sea battles. He’d captained multiple gun crews and, under the direction of Dr. Savatier, patched up sailors clinging to life. Had he softened so much in the two years since leaving the sea that the talk of facing death set him shivering?
“We must work quickly to form a battalion to protect our country,” the host said, “before the monarchy has time to block our efforts.”
“Mort au roi,” someone grumbled, just loud enough to be heard. Death to the king.
“As Jacobins and Friends of the Constitution, it is our duty to act.” He turned to a young man beside him.
“That is François Mireur,” Maxence whispered. “He just finished his medical studies at twenty-two.”
Barbaroux and Mireur—two men who had already begun to make a difference in the world, despite their age. Gilles chewed the inside of his cheek. They put Maxence and him to shame. But they hadn’t been dragged aboard a ship in their youth and forced into seamanship.
The brown-haired Mireur took a step forward. “Frères et amis, our king has refused his support of the Assembly’s call to gather twenty thousand volunteers to defend Paris.” More grumbling ensued. “Our brave troops are at the border keeping Austria and Prussia at bay, but what will become of us if our enemies break through and march on Paris? What will happen if the enemies within our ranks rise against us? Paris, the National Assembly, all we have fought for these last two years would be lost.”
Mireur had a point. Gilles found himself nodding with the others. They could not let that happen. It was no secret Louis XVI wanted Austria to invade and return him to the full power he had once enjoyed. The royals’ attempt to flee to aroyalistestronghold last year had been the final straw for many Frenchmen, Gilles included.
“We, as citizens of France, must sanction the call to arms.” Mireur emphasized his words with a pointed finger. “We, asMarseillais, must march on Paris and declare our support of the National Assembly and the constitution. Aristocrats and conspirators have inundated the capital. We must exterminate them!”
A cheer erupted through the group. Gilles did not join in, but the truth of Mireur’s words rattled his bones. If they did not all pull together in defense of their country, what would be left? The barren wastelands of the last thousand years spent under the monarchy’s thumb.
Maxence leaned over to Émile. “Seven, or I refuse the wager.”
Gilles’s brows knit. Mireur had called them to arms, and still all Maxence could think about was stupid games? There were more important things to consider.
Émile sighed. “Seven. Agreed.” He noticed Gilles watching. “Care to make it a competition?”
The girl still stood in the shadows of the doorway. An urge to go to her itched at Gilles’s mind. He shook his head. More than a month had passed since the last time he’d participated in their game. Tonight he did not have the stomach for it.
“Tomorrow evening we will feast in Mireur’s honor and herald the start of our preparations,” the host said, returning to his place by the younger man’s side. “Go to your homes. Consider the task that has been placed before us. Young men, unattached to wife or child, we are counting on you to step forward and pledge your lives to the cause. If we do not find enough among your ranks, the rest will need to fill the deficit.”
His mother’s dependence on him would not count. Gilles rocked from one foot to the other. He did not fear death. He feared oppression from an evil king. In the months since joining the Jacobins, he had sacrificed little in support of the cause besides attending meetings. If every young man in France held onto his dreams, his career, or his schooling instead of defending their nation, what chance did France have? None.
He drew in a shaky breath. Tonight he would ponder his options. But the tapping at the back of his consciousness suggested he already knew his answer.
“You’ll have to act fast,” Émile murmured. “She could flee at any moment. I could use the sevenlivresto recover my losses from Mademoiselle Poulin.”
“I am already making plans to spend it,” Maxence shot back.
Had they heard a word of what their fellow schoolmate had said? Or the letter from their beloved Barbaroux? Before he could think, Gilles slipped away from his brother. He wove through the ocean of enthusiastic listeners, making apologies as he jostled them. Most did not take notice.
