Page 42 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
A signal was given, and the crowd parted for the volunteers.
“That is comforting, coming from aroyaliste.” He backed up to avoid getting stepped on in the shifting masses. Maman released him, stepping forward on her toes to catch a final glimpse of her second son. But the young lady did not let go of his arm.
“I thought you wanted us to be friends,” she said. “Friends do not have to agree, only to support.”
Her even tone eased the tightness in his chest. “I suppose you can also be happy I have not left you to clean up my mess, even if other men have.”
Those full lips pressed into a line, and her eyes dimmed for the briefest of moments. He wished he could see the memory that seemed to pass across her mind like the last brief rays of a dying sunset. “In my observation, you seem more the type of man to clean up your own messes.” She tipped her head. “Or at least attempt to do so, even if you are not always successful.”
Gilles leaned in. “When have I not been able to clean up my own mess?” Her dark eyes filled his vision. Vivid. Rich. Flecked with the warmth of evening light. He’d never examined Marie-Caroline’s eyes this closely.
“I do not wish to kiss you,” she said slowly, carefully.
Her words slapped him out of his lavender-clouded stupor. He pulled back instantly, grateful the line of marching men held the attention of all around them. A series of deep breaths did little to calm his racing pulse. Not with her hands still encircling his arm. “Have we not moved on from the kissing game?” he asked.
At the end of the line of volunteers, two cannons rolled into place. Only two.Le Rossignolalone, though a brig, had a dozen six pounders. These looked pathetic in comparison. But then, he knew little about warfare on land. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been the asset Max had claimed. He kept the guns at the forefront of his mind. It helped prevent thoughts of her from consuming him.
“Just ensuring you have not forgotten,” she said. “We are friends, after all, not ... anything else.”
A fair reminder. He didn’t really need it, though from her perspective it must have seemed so. Her hands slid away, lingering just enough to turn his skin to gooseflesh. On second thought, he might have needed that reminder today.
“I should help Papa with Maman,” she said. “Bonne soirée, monsieur.”
He wasn’t really falling for aroyaliste, as Émile had suggested at the café. Marie-Caroline was not his lady. She was the older sister of a good friend and daughter of his employer. Their families were connected, so a friendship was logical.
Too late, he turned to bid her farewell. She’d moved to the edge of the boulevard with her parents. The noise of the crowd stayed elevated long after the volunteers had rolled out. Gilles’s ears pulsed. They should leave since the walk home would already take much longer than usual. He tapped his mother’s shoulder and motioned toward one of the side streets.
Maman wiped at her eyes and took his arm. “I am glad you stayed.”
He forced a smile. He could protect his family better from Marseille than from Paris. If only he could feel in his heart that he’d made the right decision.
Gilles stepped through the door of thesavonnerieinto the bright evening sun and pulled on his bright red cap. If he’d bought it a few days earlier, would Maxence have given him such a glare at their parting? He brushed at the curls the knitted cap had pushed into his eyes. Four days of wearing it, and he still didn’t know how to adjust his wild hair beneath it. He might need to settle for shorter hair.
A thin young man swept past him, forcing him back against the door of the office. The man wore a similar liberty cap. Never mind. Ill-mannered people could be found among all beliefs. Though something about the figure’s lanky gait seemed familiar.
“Martel?”
The young man whirled. He blinked, jaw slack, before marching back to the door of thesavonnerie. “Gilles! What are you doing here?”
“I just finished work.” On time, for once.Monsieurhad gone home early with features taut and a mind that seemed too preoccupied for anything useful.
Martel threw up his arms. “The volunteers! They all left.”
Gilles straightened the brim of his cap. “I—I decided I was of better use to the revolution here.” He braced himself for a rage that would exceed Maxence’s.
Martel let his hands drop. His head tilted to one side. “You said you were looking for another opportunity to serve. Why did you not take that? You are not married, not attached. What kept you here?”
Gilles drew in a breath to give his practiced answer.
“If I had been here,” Martel blazed on, “I would have been the first to sign my name to their list. The first in line to march toward Paris. The first to die.”
With his level of fighting experience, that final statement could very well have come to pass. “Dying is not the only way to serve the nation,” Gilles said.
Martel shook his head. “You call yourself a Jacobin. I beg you, do not turn into a Lafayette. I would not hesitate to shoot my own friend for the cause of liberty.”
That Gilles didn’t doubt. The comparison to Lafayette, who had denounced the Jacobins and fled Paris, made his shoulders stiffen. “Abandoning everything is not the only way to servela patrie. Who would keep the economy in motion if we gave up everything? People would starve.”
Martel snorted. “Not from the lack of luxury soaps and perfumes.” He closed his eyes, as though contemplating how to explain something to an uneducated child. “There will be other ways to serve. But do not pass every opportunity, my friend. I am off to meet an acquaintance on the subject of a refractory priest.”
