Page 30 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
Marie-Caroline
Gilles halted on the steps of Saint-Cannat after his Jacobin meeting. The days were lengthening, which would prove beneficial for him and the otherfédérés. He sucked in the warm evening air, and not even the hint of a sea breeze could dull his mood. In two weeks, he wouldn’t have to worry about that pesky breeze or the constant reminder of his seafaring past.
A few older members of his club passed him on the steps, shaking his hand and thanking him for volunteering to march to defend Paris. He hardly knew them, but their refrains of “Aux armes, citoyens!” stilled any apprehension he had. He was doing for them what they could not do—defend their nation and their Club.
One of the setting sun’s rays poked through the rooftops to light the front of the church. Marseille had begun its preparation for the glory of summer. Gilles lowered himself to the stair and stretched his legs out before him. Since he would miss the whole of summer, he might as well enjoy this taste of it for a few moments.
Behind him, the doors shut with a low and gentle boom. Keys clanked together. He winced at the scrape of someone winding up to spit, then a splat sounded as the projectile hit its mark. Gilles hadn’t bid farewell to Saint-Cannat by spitting on the statue for almost a month now. Not since seeing Mademoiselle Daubin’s horror at the desecration of her beloved saints.
Jean Sault descended the stairs until he reached Gilles. “It is a pity our friend Martel will not arrive back in time to leave with thefédérés.”
Gilles nodded, all the while imagining spindly Martel trying to wield a musket. Perhaps it was better for the man to be where he was. He could do more good converting the people of Provence with his zeal. A fiery passion such as Martel’s might find too much fuel among the riot-ready Parisians.
“He will not be happy to have missed the feast for Mireur,” Sault went on. “Ah, to have been there myself. Your account of it this evening ... How could you sit still for a moment?”
“It is a night I will never forget, to be certain.” What was this sudden weariness in his limbs? The club president held Gilles’s gaze as though waiting for another delicious detail of the thundering performance of Mireur’s song, but Gilles could think of nothing more that he hadn’t said during the meeting.
“Just think of all theroyalistesand traitors you will depose in Paris.” Sault gave a wistful smile. “If I did not have a duty to my family, I would be at the front of the line offédérés.”
“We are mostly going to defend Paris against the Austrians and Prussians, of course.” Gilles adjusted his seat. The long day of work had taken a bigger toll today than he’d anticipated. Luc Hamon hadn’t arrived to work at thesavonnerieagain, sending word that he and his family had fallen violently ill. His absence had led to much scrambling throughout the day for everyone.
“Any enemies ofla patrie,” Sault corrected him, “from within or without.”
“Yes,bien sûr.” But Gilles hoped they would not have to fight fellow Frenchmen. The thought of leveling a musket at a countryman, no matter his standing in regard to the government, gave him a bitter taste in his mouth. He gnawed on his lip. Did Sault not have a family and dinner to go home to?
“You will make us all very proud, Étienne. You and your comrades. Our foes will be harnessed, and we shall see France rise to the egalitarian splendor she deserves.” The man raised his fist. “Let us march! Let us march! Let an impure blood water our fields.”
Gilles raised his fist in a silent cheer as Sault bid farewell. The leader set off toward his home, and Gilles slowly let his fist fall to the cement steps. Every time he heard the wordroyalistethese days, Marie-Caroline Daubin’s face popped uninvited into his mind. Not that he would be fightingroyalistessuch as she.
Would he?
Though most Jacobins hated to admit it, themademoisellewas right. It had been women who had finally succeeded in dragging the king and queen from Versailles to Paris. Would theroyalistewomen sit in their silk-covered chairs and let the revolution play out, or would they rise up with their pitchforks to demand their own idea of justice and liberty? He could very well imagine Mademoiselle Daubin taking to the streets to support her cause.
Gilles swallowed, suddenly chill despite the sun’s embrace. Could he level a musket at those dark eyes? Or watch someone else do it?
A simple brown dress rounded the corner, backlit by the weary sun. Gilles sat up. What was she doing here again?
Mademoiselle Daubin walked briskly along the side of the road, looking very much the same as she had that evening three weeks previous when she’d stolen the prayer book, with a basket over her arm. Only this time she came from the opposite direction, moving east toward her home. She did not look at Saint-Cannat. A young servant trailed along behind her, scuffing his shoes in the dust of the road.
It was lucky for Gilles that Sault had already locked up the church and taken the keys. She wouldn’t be able to tempt him to open the building for her. Gilles stood and brushed at his trousers. “Bonsoir,mademoiselle!”
She slowed, turning her gaze to the columned façade of the church before lowering it to the steps. After hesitating a moment, she returned his greeting and nodded her head, but continued her pace.
Well, if she did not wish to speak to him, he would not press her. His feet, however, did not understand his brain’s instructions to start off in the opposite direction toward home. They hastened him down the steps and across the street.
He would just see how she fared, and then he would turn around. After all, he had not seen her in nearly two weeks. Not since catching her on her way to some meeting she wished kept secret.
Mademoiselle Daubin did not slow her pace, though he could not tell if she was purposefully ignoring him or innocently unaware of his presence. Why had she returned, once again without a carriage?
“What is in your basket this time?” he asked as he fell into step behind her.
She showed no surprise at his voice. “What I have in my basket is no concern of yours.” A linen napkin covered the top of it.
“Come. There should be no secrets between countrymen.”
“I do not subscribe to such Jacobin notions. My life is my own.”
For certain. Gilles leaned in. “Going for more prayer books?”
