Page 53 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
I wish I had seen his face and could know for certain what he meant by it. Does he wish to continue our friendship? Or was this a final token of goodwill?
Oh, Sylvie, why are you not here to help me sort through these frenzied thoughts? You always knew what to say or what to think with Nicolas. Not that the friendship between Gilles and me is in any way similar to what I had with Nicolas. I think it has been made very clear that friendship is the only logical relationship in our situation, but why does it feel so wrong to say it?
Forgive me for bringing up Monsieur Joubert so much. It has been a year, but I cannot chase him from my mind today.
Affectueusement,
Caroline
Gilles glanced behind him as he followed his employer into the Daubins’ house. None of his Jacobin acquaintances appeared to know about Marie-Caroline attending secret mass or his ties to the secret, but this sort of familiar visit would make it seem Gilles had a closer tie to the family than just that of a clerk. Most people in the area at this time of day were servants orbourgeois. While there was a split betweenrévolutionnairesandroyalistesin both groups, no red caps flashed among the passersby on this street, which signaled the absence ofsans-culottes.
Still, the tightness in Gilles’s shoulders did not loosen as he shuffled through the door. This event would help keep him in good standing with themonsieur, but he wished he could have excused himself. The footman shut the door behind him, and Gilles nodded his appreciation automatically, though Daubin continued into the front hall without a glance at the servant. In the Étienne house, Florence was as much a part of the family as he was. How different the Daubins and Étiennes treated their servants. Technically both families were of the merchant class, but thebourgeoisiecomprised individuals of a vast array of fortunes and circumstances.
Gilles glanced at the stairs. The sun hadn’t reached its zenith yet, and the western windows that flanked the door let in little light. But he could see the entrance was empty of everyone except the servant, his employer, and himself. Just as well.
Daubin whirled and motioned for the footman to quit the room, which the young man did obediently. Gilles fought the urge to step back as his employer advanced until they were toe to toe.
“I have a problem.”
Gilles cleared his throat. “How may I be of service,monsieur?”
The whites of Monsieur Daubin’s eyes shone, despite the dimness of the front hall. His employer’s hands wrung. Gilles had never seen the man so agitated. “Thesavonnerie. It is in trouble.”
Gilles nodded slowly. His examination of the ledgers and efforts to tally the expenses had made him fear as much.
Monsieur Daubin brought his hands together, as though in prayer. But instead of invoking deity, he tapped his fingers against his mouth. “I thought therévolutionnairefervor would die down. That business would return. I let myself anticipate a renewed time of prosperity. Next year, things will be better. Next year. For three years.”
No one knew at the onset of the revolution what the future would hold. Gilles studied the toes of his shoes. He could hardly blame Daubin for hoping. Didn’t they all hope for a quick resolution?
“But our customers are fleeing,” Daubin went on. “Merchants are not paying for luxuries. I still have crates of soap from two years ago.”
Gilles’s head jerked up. “Two years?” One of the ledgers had noted a large sale at the beginning of last year—almost impossibly large compared to their normal orders. “Did you ...”
“I bought the lot.” Monsieur Daubin kneaded his temples. “It’s all in a warehouse.”
A groan escaped Gilles before he could rein it in. “Have you bought any more?”
The man’s head bobbed up and down. “Several batches here and there. But I cannot do it again. I have barely enough to support my family’s current living through the end of the year.”
He’d used all his family’s funds to keep thesavonnerieafloat. And not just afloat. He’d kept it steadily producing its normal output in hopes that the market would right itself. He was practically paying his employees from his family’s purse.
Gilles closed his eyes. His earlier fears had more founding than he realized. Would the Daubins leave Marseille? His throat constricted, though it shouldn’t have. If they left, the problem of their involvement in secret mass would be solved. “Do you have a plan? Ideas?”
“No plans. But I had hoped perhaps your father might help.”
Père? Not likely without some incentive. He found preying on foreign merchantmen more profitable than his own trading these days.
“I would strike him a good bargain. He could make a fine profit in Naples, or perhaps Tuscany.”
Daubin had sold to Père before, but then the profit had come from northern France. Most other Mediterranean countries made their own soaps.
“Or the Americas. They have little by way of European luxury there.” Daubin’s voice was pinched. “Surely there is some place that will take my inventory and make him a fortune. And I can—”
Gilles held up his hands to stop the man’s musing. “I will inquire when he returns.” Each word he spoke made his gut sink. Asking Père for a favor. His father would love that. “Until then, we should form a plan. Cut expenses. Decrease prices.” Let workers go. Gilles’s heart pounded, and he couldn’t say it. Given the current circumstances, letting go of employees could incite a riot. “We will work carefully. Surely there’s something to be done.”
Daubin’s hand settled on Gilles’s shoulder. “Thank you, Étienne. I knew I could rely on your help. You’ve been a trusted clerk these two years.”
Gilles forced a smile. He had planned to leave thesavonnerieat the end of this year. Would he leave just as Monsieur Daubin’s luck ran out?
