Page 38 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
Gilles bolted to his feet. He tossed his coin to the table. “Your ridicule will not persuade me to change my conviction any more than your accusations.”
“I’ve never seen you so severe,” Émile said, grabbing Gilles’s arm. “What happened to the merry Gilles who did not care whether we stayed or went, so long as he had a drink and a pretty face to gawk at?”
“He realized the seriousness of our situation.” Gilles shoved the chair in, then removed his jacket from the back and shrugged into it. “And he decided to leave the gawking to you.”
Max pointed to the empty seat. “We aren’t finished.”
“Then you must carry on without me.” Gilles made for the doorway, following the path the servant girl cut on her way to take Marie-Caroline her refreshment. Maxence’s and Émile’s protests drowned in the babel of the coffee house, but they would not leave his head.
He would not go. He was right not to go. But a part of him insisted he really was the coward they accused him of being.
25 June 1792
Maison Valentin, Marseille
Ma chèreSylvie,
There is a strange energy in Marseille. I am sitting in our carriage, waiting as my brother meets with his friends in the café, and I sense it everywhere—in the set of the men’s mouths as they pass in the street, in the anxious scurrying of mothers with children going home from the market.
What I wouldn’t give for a dance. It’s silly, isn’t it? Our country is at war with itself, at war with foreign powers, and all I wish to do is dance. Throw cares to the wind, dress up in a new silk gown, and dance until my shoes are in shreds. I think mostly I wish for a way to dispel this tension mounting in my chest. My one comfort in leaving Fontainebleau and Paris was the hope of finding a little more quiet in Provence. But Marseille is ablaze with its own revolutionary fires, and home is no shelter from them.
Our priest, Père Franchicourt, has been at his ease these past few weeks. His nephew has gone to recruit for the Jacobins and is therefore not actively pursuing him. He smiles more readily, and Sunday I even met him in the back garden. Under a cloak, of course. The absence of hisrévolutionnairekin has cheered him, or perhaps it is the fact that I have not had to confess my lying ways to him for some weeks.
Speaking ofrévolutionnairesleaving, I am shocked to hear of one who is not. Two days ago, Gilles Étienne walked home with me fromle Panier, practically bursting with Jacobin pride. He told me that of course he was going, as though he did not know how I could think otherwise. But just this morning, Émile stormed into the dining room at breakfast grumbling that Gilles was suddenly doubting whether he would go.
Gilles. Who always follows his brother in everything—giving up life at sea, pursuing medical school, joining the Jacobins, playing their kissing games. I can hardly believe it. I am glad I had to witness only Émile’s display of disgust and not Maxence’s. He has so foul a temper. Émile and Maxence are in the coffee house as I write, attempting to convince him to join, and I do not envy Gilles.
I do wonder what has changed his mind. He was so determined. Not that I care whether he stays in Marseille or goes to Paris,bien sûr. But a passion such as his ...
Gilles held the door of the carriage open while the serving girl deposited her tray of coffee. He helped her down before ascending the step and leaning his head into the coach. Mademoiselle Daubin’s humming, always the sameSur le Pont d’Avignon, made him hesitate before he spoke. “May I come in?”
She sat with a little desk across her lap, a page before her and pencil in hand. Her eyes narrowed as they rested on him, but only for a moment. “Gilles? I thought Émile was having a word with you.”
“Yes, he had several. And wasn’t finished when I walked out.” He and Max wouldn’t hurry out of the café. He had a few moments.
Her brows lifted as she nodded. “Yes, Émile would. Come in. Would you like coffee? She brought two cups.” She set her writing things aside.
Gilles pulled himself in and settled on the bench opposite Mademoiselle Daubin. “Non,merci. I had my fill inside.” The cabin was warm, though a draft from the open windows kept the air fresh. “I am sorry to interrupt your writing.”
She nimbly poured herself a cup and returned the coffee pot to its tray. Steam wafted up from the cooling liquid, swirling about her face. She inhaled it in much the same way as her father tested the scent of a new batch of perfume—eyes closed, faint smile. “It is of little importance. I am writing to my cousin in Fontainebleau, and I write to her several times per week.”
“She is the one you lived with the last two years.”
Mademoiselle Daubin sighed. “Yes. My youngest brother is still with them. I shouldn’t envy a seventeen-year-old boy, but I do. I suppose another thing to conf—” She pursed her lips, then took a drink.
Gilles waited for her to finish her thought. She had almost admitted to something.
“I thought you had decided to join thefédérés.”
She had changed the subject. Gilles shifted in his seat. A carriage passed a little too closely, its aged occupants sitting prim and silent. “I do not think it best that I go.”
She nodded, then sipped once more at her cup.
“I will still do my part at home,” he said quickly. “My loyalties have not changed. It’s only that my mother and sister-in-law need my help. And with so many already going, it seemed best to do my duty to my family. What’s more—”
“You don’t have to defend your decision to me.”
Gilles’s mouth snapped closed. She must think less of him for taking the apparent coward’s route. Or perhaps she was satisfied, since one fewer militantrévolutionnairewould march to her beloved Paris. “If only our brothers took the news as you have,” he said.
