Page 29 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
When Gilles reached the opposite side of the room, he edged toward the doorway. “Mademoiselle?” He bowed his head.
She turned toward him, and Gilles confirmed his suspicions. This girl was at least as young as Mademoiselle Poulin. “Are you enjoying the meeting?” he asked, voice barely audible.
She colored, eyes dropping to the floor. “Of course,monsieur. But my father does not know that ...”
Gilles held up a hand. “I understand.” He hesitated. “There are gentlemen in this gathering who do not have your best interest at heart.” His gut clenched at the betrayal falling from his mouth. But how could he look his mother in the eye that evening if he allowed Maxence to prance over and catch this young woman unprepared? “I think it best you retire before the crowd begins to leave. For your sake. I do not wish to see you used for someone’s fleeting pleasure.”
The red in the girl’s cheeks heightened. She glanced around the room and then back at Gilles. He waited for her to throw out some witty and sarcastic comment as Mademoiselle Daubin would do. But she curtsied. Her hand touched his arm. “Thank you for your concern,monsieur.” She turned wide, admiring eyes on him one last time before disappearing into the rest of the house.
Gilles frowned. He hadn’t intended to win the girl over with chivalry. Perhaps he’d only imagined the look of praise. He tried to refocus on the host’s announcement about Friday evening’s dinner, wondering whether he had truly helped or simply made things equally bad, though in more honorable ways than Maxence would have employed. His conscience, which had so lately been taking the face of Mademoiselle Daubin, had pushed him toward what she believed was right. Unfortunately she had failed to consider the consequences of good deeds.
The blush of evening touched the courtyard where Gilles sat wedged between Maxence and another acquaintance from Montpellier. He hardly had room to move his arms to cut the tantalizing roasted goat, flavored with rosemary and garlic. Nearly eighty men had arrived at the banquet for Mireur, and the host had been forced to move the feast to the courtyard. Even in the open air, they hardly fit around the tables.
“Sevenlivres,” Maxence muttered.
Gilles followed his brother’s gaze to an upper window, where a face watched through the open panes. He quickly ducked his head and shoved a bite of meat into his mouth. It was the girl from last night.
“She’s ogling you.” Maxence nudged him with his shoulder. “What did you say to her yesterday? Trying to win the sevenlivresyourself to make up for Marie-Caroline?”
Marie-Caroline? When had Maxence started using Mademoiselle Daubin’s Christian name? Gilles knew her far better, and even he did not feel it his right to call her by so familiar a term. He choked down the meat and cleared his throat. “Only that she should take care.”
“Snatching her up with the soft approach and undermining your own brother.” Émile shook his head across the table, a smirk on his face. “That isn’t usually your style.”
“We all change our approaches from time to time.” Gilles kept his eyes on his plate. For once, he hadn’t attempted to reel the girl in. It seemed he had more success when trying not to. He shooed away a fly attempting to share in his feast.
The cacophony of conversations that echoed through the courtyard hushed as a figure rose toward the front. Mireur, ready to plead once again with his countrymen to come to the aid of their nation. Gilles turned on the bench to better see. The young leader gazed into the crowd of revelers, seeming to individually catch each eye.
“Allons enfants de la patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé.” Come, children of the nation, the day of glory has arrived.
Mireur’s song rumbled against the stone walls that enclosed the group, silencing any remaining whispers. The hairs on the back of Gilles’s neck stood on end. A strange tingling tiptoed up his arms.
“Against us, tyranny’s bloody banner is raised.” Mireur continued, the simple but striking melody reverberating through Gilles’s core. Enemies were on their border, ready to destroy all they loved. All he loved. Maman. Victor and Rosalie. His little nieces, Aude and Claire. Florence. Beside him, Max wore an intense expression showing he thought on the same things. Standing down, staying home, meant opening the doors for harm to come to them.
Mademoiselle Daubin’s face also appeared in Gilles’s mind. She didn’t want saving, especially not by him. But she didn’t realize the danger that awaited.
“Aux armes, citoyens!” To arms, citizens!
Gilles breathed deeply, but the thundering within him would not slow. How could he let Austria and Prussia tear apart this land? Beside him Maxence nodded. Some listeners sat frozen, fists clenched and eyes unmoving from the lone figure at the front of the courtyard. Others swayed like Maxence, letting the music fill the depths of their souls as the song continued, preaching against tyranny and calling France’s young men to stand.
“Form your battalions. Let us march! Let us march! Let an impure blood water our fields.”
His own blood pulsed in rhythm with the tune. Montpellier and its medical school would be there when Gilles returned. What good would it do for him to learn the art of saving his neighbors and his family if there were no people left to save? What horrors would those he loved face if he did not stand in their defense?
When the chorus began again, Gilles found himself among the men who leaped from their seats to shout, “Aux armes, citoyens!” with the rest of the company. He would go. For Maman, if nothing else. For Victor’s family. For the glory of France. He would do something with his life other than raiding and stealing for his own glory as Père did.
Mademoiselle Daubin’s voice rang in his head, not quite drowned out by the blaring song around him.Go and form your battalions. Do your duty. Leave the women to clean up your mess, as we always do.Gilles brushed it aside. What did that woman know? She played at being aroyalisteand thought she was doing the nation a favor by clinging to the past. A new age had begun. They could not go back. The sooner she saw that, the better for her and for France.
The notes of Mireur’s song rolled through the evening air. Verse after verse cemented in Gilles’s heart the determination to join Marseille’s national guard. It was the right thing to do. He would not let them down. He couldn’t.
The city is in an uproar. No corner of it is safe from talk of thefédérés, as the recruits call themselves. They will set out to join the battalions in Paris in less than two weeks. Of course Émile has volunteered to go. He will not let our family forget the fact, and it has driven Maman to fits of weeping when he is not in the house. Maxence Étienne has also signed, and Émile assures me Gilles will shortly follow their lead.
It will make my world much more peaceful. Papa and Émile will not shout so much, and I shall not be forced to cross swords with Gilles and Maxence during our frequent—and entirely unplanned—meetings. Why, then, my dear Sylvie, does this hollowness swell inside me, like a ballroom devoid of music and light and dancers? It isn’t as though I shall miss all the youngrévolutionnaires.
Thefédérés’ chosen anthem rings through the city in the silence once filled by church bells. It is stirring, to be sure, and very clearly is the cause for so many men enlisting. And yet, as I listen to its words echoing through the house while Émile prepares to return to Montpellier, I cannot help but whither under the barbarism and intransigence of some of the sentiments. They claim to represent the people of France and fight against those attacking this nation. But will they defend the people of France who do not agree with the course of their revolution? The massacre at Avignon earlier this year would suggest not. Are priests androyalistesthis “impure blood” of which their anthem sings? Will it be the blood of my family watering their fields, when we simply wish for a government different from what they propose?
I am sorry to send so gloomy a letter. Perhaps when thefédéréshave left, it will be easier to find more things about which to be cheerful.
Affectueusement,
