Page 45 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
Gilles generously spread a helping of fig compote over a piece of waffle. Not a month ago he’d been eating figs in his uncle’s orchard when Marie-Caroline passed by. He would not have thought they’d have that young lady sitting at their table so soon.
The honey and figs sat thick and sweet on his tongue as he chewed the crisp waffle. Across the table Marie-Caroline daintily nibbled on a section of fresh pear as she listened to Maman talk about the busyness that came with being a sea captain’s wife. His friend did not look uncomfortable. The thought sent a homey warmth through his chest he could not attribute to the comfort of the much-loved dessert.
“I am grateful Gilles was able to be here tonight,” Maman said, and he perked up. Why wouldn’t he have been at dinner? He rarely ate at the cafés these days. “He usually has his club meetings Saturday evenings.”
The buttery, sweet waffle turned to dust in his mouth. Today was Saturday. Not Friday.Parbleu... his meeting! He choked down his bite of waffle and whirled to look at the clock on the mantle behind him. Eight o’clock. The meeting had already finished.
He lowered the rest of hisgaufreto his plate. He couldn’t claim work after seeing Martel in the street. Gilles feigned a laugh and took a drink that he hoped would cover his panic.
Good excuse or no, Martel would have his head.
Do you remember balls? The thick air, the dripping candles, the merry hum about the room? Everyone dressed to be seen and admired. And when you caught the eye of a handsome young man across the room—and you knew you’d truly caught his interest, not just a fleeting glance—the glow of the room seemed to come from inside your chest. All you wished was to discreetly find a way across the dance floor in order to speak to him. For though you may not have known him well, in that moment he was the most desirable man.
I remember when Nicolas was the man across the room. It feels like a lifetime ago. So distant, I convinced myself I would never feel that flicker again. Do you think—in the midst of chaos and confusion, murder in the streets and war in the East, families separated by distance and conviction—that there could be room for such a little spark of happiness? I despair at ever being a young hopeful at a ball again, but perhaps there is a place in this maelstrom for the moments that make life worth living.
Tonight we dined with Madame Étienne and Gilles. Though the fare was unpretentious, I think it was one of the best meals I have had since leaving Paris. I can imagine you reading this now, devouring every word as I did every last drop of Madame Étienne’s stew. You read too much into things, dear Sylvie, but tonight I will give you a little morsel I know you will find tantalizingly delicious. Before dinner, I met Gilles in the dining room, and he said—
I finish in haste and say only this—I am grateful to have worked with you in sheltering so many from the injustice of so-called liberation.
Give my love to the family. And an extra embrace to Guillaume.
M. C.
Martel didn’t bother to wait for Gilles outside after work on Monday. He paced the foyer like an injured wolf unable to sit still.
Gilles paused for a fortifying breath before descending the stairs from the upper floor. “Good evening, my friend.”
“Where were you Saturday?
The truth was his greatest ally. Jacobins thrived on truth. “I thought it was Friday. My mother invited friends to dine, and by the time I realized my mistake, it was too late.”
Martel’s face remained scrunched in its scowl as Gilles made his way to the bottom of the staircase. “We signed a petition, Étienne. To remove the king. Of all the days to miss.”
Gilles had heard talk of petitions circulating through the Club of Marseille. But the king’s recent veto of a measure outlawing refractory priests had thrown the Jacobins andsans-culottesinto an uproar. “I will sign it this week. I would not have missed if I hadn’t miscalculated the days.” Although an evening with Marie-Caroline would have tempted him more than he liked to admit. Something within chided him. Would he really have given up that evening with her?
“Will you?” Martel jutted his face into Gilles’s. “Or is this just another excuse because you’ve found your courage and conviction failing,mon ami?” He spat out the familiar term with such force that Gilles wondered if he really considered them friends anymore.
Gilles sidestepped him and inched toward the door. “If you had the paper, I would sign it now. I have no love for Louis Capet. Only for France.”
That seemed to ease some of the seething. “Then you will have no qualms in assisting me in duties to the country.”
So long as it did not mean marching to distant corners ofla patrie. “Of course. I live to serve the nation.” Gilles held back a wince. What a Jacobin thing to say.
Martel nodded thoughtfully, though Gilles could not decipher if he believed the words or was pleased that Gilles knew the proper thing to say to get himself out of trouble. “Come, let’s be off.”
“Now?”
Martel swept open the door and waited for Gilles to pass through. “The nation needs us. If we are not to defend her on the front lines of Paris, we must defend her in the streets of Marseille.”
Gilles nodded once. A little warning would have been nice, but when hadrévolutionnairesdone anything with sufficient warning? He strode through the door and followed Martel down the street to a tavern, where a group of men waited around the front door.
He knew only a few faces from the Jacobins, who dressed in neat jackets and cravats. More of the gathering wore the patched garb of laborers and sported red caps. Gilles hastily pulled his hat from his pocket and pulled it over his hair. Best to try to fit in with this lot.
“Are we ready?” Martel asked.
“The sooner we serve justice, the better,” mumbled one of thesans-culottes. Had they pulled these men from the tavern? This one seemed already intoxicated. A few carried sticks. One even had a hatchet. Precautionary weapons, certainly.
“Where are we going?” Gilles asked Martel as the group moved off in the direction of the factory. They weren’t going to harass Monsieur Daubin, were they? Gilles tried to swallow down the tightness that leaped into his throat. Daubin had done nothing to incite Jacobin censure. He kept his ideologies mostly to himself. Besides, he had a son who marched to Paris. Did that not protect him in some measure?
