Page 32 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
He had no answer for that. In a perfect France, help would have been there, but the revolution had plunged the country into chaos. Someday there would be better order and people would be taken care of. That was what he, Maxence, and Émile were marching for.
They turned onto the neat road on which the Daubins lived. Mademoiselle Daubin’s pace slowed. Or perhaps Gilles had imagined it. He did not want their walk to end just yet.
“You are going to Paris, are you not?” Her voice did not hold the accusation he’d come to expect from her.
“Of course.”
Her hand slid from around his arm to adjust her basket. Gilles held his arm out, waiting, but she did not return her hand. “Then I wish you the best,” she said.
“Surely I will see you again in the next week.” Gilles let his arm drop to his side. “You cannot stay away from thesavonnerie.”
Mademoiselle Daubin lifted a shoulder. “My mother is more protective these days. And I can only imagine that will worsen as Émile’s departure approaches. I am her only child at home now, with my sister married and youngest brother still in Fontainebleau.”
He counted himself very fortunate that his mother was not so prone to worry. She’d dealt with more farewells than the average wife and mother. Still, as he imagined her standing on the steps to see off two of her three sons, a pang of guilt reverberated through his chest. He blinked, clearing the thought. Maman would not struggle any more this time than she did each time Père or Victor left. Gilles hadn’t seen her cry over a departure since the first time he went to sea.
“I hope to see you before we leave.”
The white stone house, painted dusty blue by the evening light, loomed above them. Houses across the street blocked most of the sunset.
“We shall see how muchrévolutionnairezeal I can tolerate between now and then,” she said with a tight smile. “Émile returns home tomorrow, and I do not know if sharing a house with him will leave me with enough fortitude to face more than one of you.”
“Must we always be Jacobin androyaliste?” He stopped at the foot of the stairs leading up to the Daubins’ front door.
She curtsied a farewell. “Do you plan to turn your back on the Jacobins? Since I do not plan to change my beliefs on the matter of our government, I think that yes, we must.”
“What I meant was, is there any room for friendship in the middle ground?”
She gave a humorless laugh and ascended the first step. “I do not know many monarchists and Jacobins who are still friends. Do you?”
He caught her hand to stop her. “Someday that has to change, doesn’t it? If we are to live in peace. Why not now?” Her fingers went rigid in his as he bowed over them. He checked himself before he kissed her knuckles. That would do nothing to help his plight, especially after Martel’s display prior to leaving. “I have kept your secret.”
Gilles released her hand and backed away. Above them, the door opened and warm light flooded the street. Mademoiselle Daubin ascended the rest of the stairs as her father’s rough voice asked after the Hamon family. At the door, she paused and glanced back. A small smile played at the corners of her mouth. Then the door closed behind her.
Gilles quickly retreated into the deepening gloom, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. His flesh still tingled from the light pressure of her touch on his arm, and his heart pattered at the elusive smile she’d thrown him. What would it matter if she accepted his plea for friendship? He would be gone in two weeks. Leaving the women to clean up his mess, as she had put it. Still, he couldn’t help wondering if she desired friendship as well. She hadn’t refuted his last question.
Despite the bleakness and despair on the horizon, he wandered home with a spring in his step and a whistle on his lips.
In barely a week, Gilles would be gone.
He closed the medical book he’d attempted to read and sat up on his bed. The battalion would have doctors enough with so manyMontpellierainsjoining, they wouldn’t need his meager knowledge that came from studying under Dr. Savatier on boardle Rossignoland reading books in his room after work.
Gilles rose and walked to the foot of his bed, where a great trunk lay. He knelt before it, taking in the faded etching on the lid.Étienne. Once, this chest had gone to sea with his father, but Père had given it up for a newer, finer trunk. As a boy, Gilles had been so proud to inherit it. He pulled open the lid and slid his book in line with the other medical books that used to make their home atop his mantel. Nearly all his belongings took up residence in this trunk now. Maman would have an easier time cleaning out the room should he ...
With a sigh, Gilles sat back on his haunches. He’d seen death before. He’d faced death before. But somehow preparing for the possibility now set his head spinning. He hadn’t taken time to prepare for it then. At sea, there was a chance of meeting one’s end, but no one counted on it, especially when the mission was to transport goods from Marseille across the Mediterranean, not battle despots, traitors, and tyrants. Thefédérésmarched for war and glory.
Form your battalions.
Let us march! Let us march!
Let an impure blood water our fields.
Gilles shivered as the words of Mireur’s song tumbled through his mind. Removed from the fire of Mireur’s voice and the thrumming excitement filling the courtyard onrue duThubaneau, the lyrics had a chilling edge to them. They’d done their duty to persuade him to leave, but now he found himself wishing they didn’t constantly whirl through his consciousness.
He pushed himself to his feet, letting his eyes wander over the collection of medical books. What if he did die at the hands ofroyalistesin Paris or in the advance of the Austrian and Prussian army? He’d spent so many hours examining each page of these books, extracting any knowledge he could. If he died next month, had he wasted those hours? Should he have instead taken more time with his mother?
As he closed the lid, a little glimmer caught his eye in a corner of the trunk. Odd, since he owned very little besides his watch that resembled gold, and the watch was still in his waistcoat pocket. He fished the little gold ring out from the dark corner. Hisgrandmère’s ring. The one Père had given him on arrival.
Jamais en vain.Never in vain. He ran his thumb over the elegant calligraphy engraved on the ring’s surface. Grandmère had died before he reached his tenth birthday, but he still remembered her cheery smile as she wrapped him in bony hugs whenever she came to visit. Was she speaking to him now with this ring, assuring him his efforts would not be wasted?
