Page 36 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
They did leave women with such messes to clean up, didn’t they? Mademoiselle Daubin was right.
“You refused to go recruit for the cause with Martel,” Max said after he’d removed every book from his bed. “You refuse to go to Paris to help us maintain peace and liberty. And you call yourself a Jacobin.” He spit at the floor, as though he were in one of the student-frequented cafés rather than his bedroom. Without turning back, he began rummaging through his belongings, ignoring his younger brother standing in the doorway.
Gilles expected the conversation to go this way, and still the weight of Maxence’s accusations settled unbendingly on his shoulders. “I am noroyaliste. I wish for freedom and a new France. I simply...” He scratched the back of his head. “What will we do in Paris? If the army holds the Prussians and Austrians, I mean.”
“What we do here. Advance the cause with every waking breath.” Max threw a cravat over his shoulder, then another. He wouldn’t need those on his march.
“But what does that mean? Stir up riots? Beat those who disagree into submission?”
Another cravat. And another. How many did Maxence own? “Whatever is needed.” His growl rumbled through the room like thunder across an open sea. It rattled Gilles’s bones in the same manner as those chilling storms. Sitting in repurposed churches, he could nod his head about forcing his fellow Frenchmen into seeing the truth of Jacobin teachings. But if they beat their fellow citizens into believing an ideology, was that any better than the monarchy’s beating its subjects into the hierarchical ranks of society?
“I leftle Rossignolto help people, not to hurt them.” Gilles’s voice hardly carried over Maxence’s sifting.
The soles of the new mules clunked sharply against the floor as Max traversed the room, keeping his back to Gilles. “Sometimes a little pain is what is best for them.”
“But you cannot force it. Do they not still have the right to choose?” Just as Max had the right to choose anger. Gilles took a step backward. Down the stairs, silence reigned across the ground floor. Maman must have gone to bed already. It wouldn’t do to wake her with their arguing.
“You are a coward, Gilles Étienne,” Max said over his shoulder.
“It is not cowardice to be wise.” Their father’s words stampeded out of Gilles’s mouth.
His brother finally turned, with lips pulled into a sneer. “You sound like Père. Fitting for someone who cares only about his own safety and gain.”
Gilles went rigid. His shoulders squared. His hands balled into fists. “I’m not the one leaving home to prey on those who cannot defend themselves,” Gilles said through grinding teeth.
Maxence rushed at the door, banyan flying out behind him. Gilles planted a foot behind him and crouched. What advantage his older brother had in height, Gilles made up for in breadth. They hadn’t wrestled in years, but it would be an even fight now.
With a snarl, Max caught himself against the doorframe. Though backlit by the candles in the bedroom, the whites of his eyes contrasted starkly with the shadows of his face. “Then stay and hide behind the women’s skirts. And may your impure blood water the fields with that of every other enemy of France.”
The door slammed with a resounding crack. Gilles blinked in the black of the corridor. His fingers slowly loosened, and his arms fell to his sides. A numbness settled over his brain—a fog thick enough to scoop up with a pail. Maman, Père, Maxence, Émile, Marie-Caroline, Martel ... Were any of them right?
He trudged back up the stairs to his empty and silent room. Perhaps no one was, and whatever deity presided over this sorry plight was laughing in the skies at the disaster.
Gilles sighed audibly and brought the utilitarian white cup to his lips. Even in a coffee house that did not allow female patrons, Maxence had found one to ogle. His brother’s eyes followed the lone serving girl throughout the crowded room, which was alive with clattering cups, noisy consumers, and revolutionary fervor.
“I thought you said Émile was coming.” Not that Gilles really wanted to face their friend, not after the confrontation with Max last night. Snippets of the song Mireur had sung at the feast drifted about the coffee house. Every round ofAux armes, citoyens!pushed men to their feet and cups of coffee onto the floor for the poor serving girl to wipe up.
“He will be here. His mother must have held him up at home.” Maxence pulled a face as he lifted his cup. “She’s been clinging mercilessly to him since Friday. But he will be here.”
If Madame Daubin clung to him with enough force that he did not show up this evening, Gilles would not complain. Max had arrived at thesavonneriejust as Gilles was readying to leave. Most of Max’s anger from last night had dissolved into grim determination. He hadn’t told Gilles why he was bringing him to the café, but it did not take a scholar to guess. Max had failed to convince him to join thefédérésbut hoped their friend could succeed.
Light brown hair sticking out of a crimson liberty cap strolled through the door of the coffee house, and Max jumped to his feet to wave Émile over to their corner table at the back of the room.
Blast. Gilles swirled the bitter drink in his cup, steeling himself for the barrage. Émile would use ardor rather than fury to try to persuade him. And Gilles would come out looking the obstinate fool for denying his Jacobin passion and choosing to stay home.
“Good evening,mes frères,” Émile said, clapping Maxence on the arm across the table before sitting beside Gilles.
His brothers? When had Émile started calling them that?
Their friend signaled the server for a cup. “You will excuse my tardiness. Women troubles at home.”
His long-suffering expression made Gilles want to shake his head. Give him a week on the road with hundreds of dirty, tired men, and Émile would pine for the comforts of home and the company of those women.
“Maxence tells me you have some misgivings about our march.” Émile rested a hand on Gilles’s shoulder like a wise, old master trying to encourage his pupil. “What has made you consider changing your mind?”
Gilles pushed his hand away. The idiot. Émile was hardly a year older. Perhaps he was trying to act like the leaders of hisMontpellierainJacobins. “I am not considering it. I have already changed my mind. I wish to fight for liberty and justice here in Marseille, not the streets of Paris. War will spread throughout the country. I wish to be where I can protect my family.”
An odd grin twisted Émile’s face. “Ah,oui. Your family, past and future.” He cast a knowing look across the table, but Max looked as confused as Gilles. “It is a noble sentiment, to be certain. But you are a Jacobin, Gilles.La patrieis your family.”
