Page 86 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
A shrill voice sounded from within the house, and the soap maker turned to answer it. Gilles wiped his hands against his trousers. He had no faith in Madame Daubin’s abilities to cover their secret.
“Take him and everyone else from the house while we search,” Martel barked to the bigsans-culotte.
Daubin heard too late, giving him no time to resist as the man hauled him out the front door.Madameshrieked from inside. Red-capped men stepped up, some of them shoving others aside in their eagerness to lay hands on the captive.
“Bring out themadameand the daughter.” Martel threw Gilles a sneer. “I know a few of us who would like to have a little fun with that one.”
Gilles seethed. He bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting. Marie-Caroline was safe under his bed at home, but the lust in Martel’s eyes urged him to show the spindle-legged bilge rat the wrong end of a twelve-gun broadside.
“My daughter has returned to Paris,” Daubin growled. He did not fight his captors as Gilles would have expected.
On order, men surged through the front door, and shrieks followed.
Martel cocked his head. “You lie,monsieur. I saw her on her balcony just this morning.”
The older man’s face flamed.
“And I do not think that is the only lie you’ve told tonight.”
Thesans-culottesdragged a hysterical Madame Daubin through the door, bedgown rumpled and cap falling over her eyes. Gilles couldn’t discern her blubbering exclamations. They pushed her toward her husband, and she nearly collapsed to the paved walkway.
“I will keep watch of the prisoners,” Gilles said. There had to be a way to get them out of this undiscovered.
“Of course not.” Martel gripped his shoulder. “I want you searching with me.”
He couldn’t let the Daubins out of his sight. The horrific stories from the newspaper about the Paris massacres glued his feet to the floor. If he entered the house, there was no knowing if he’d ever see Caroline’s parents alive again.
“Come, Étienne.”
One of the men holding the Daubins caught Gilles’s gaze and urged him forward with a nod. His liberty cap hung low over his eyes. Between the high collar of his waistcoat and the brim of his hat, a little gold hoop caught the torchlight. Gilles narrowed his eyes. Père?
“Turn over every piece of furniture,” Martel cried. “Leave no door unopened.”
Praise the skies. Père was here.
Gilles ducked inside after Martel and made for the stairs. He passed the spot where Caroline had sat that night after dinner, lilac petticoat shimmering about her, when the weight ofrévolutionnairearguments had driven her to distraction. So much had changed since that night. He bolted for her bedroom. The door had already been kicked in.
“She’s not here,” one of the three searchers said when Gilles entered.
“Check the other bedrooms. She must be hiding.” Her wardrobe had been opened, and clothing lay strewn about the floor. The man who spoke immediately jumped to follow Gilles’s command, but the other two glanced at the gowns.
“If we shove a few in the corner, they won’t be found,” one of them mumbled. “We can come back later.”
Some patriotic fervor. They were here to pillage. Gilles turned on his heel and strode to the desk as though to look through her papers. What could he salvage? Very little, unless he stayed to the very end of this when the rioters had dispersed. What would Martel do when he didn’t find Franchicourt inside? Ransack the house, no doubt, as he had done before. Gilles had to find something for her. She came to him with nothing. These filthy thieves were raking their fingers through everything she had.
A stack of letters sat on her writing desk, and he picked them up as though investigating them for clues. All were addressed to Sylvainne, her cousin, though no directions were listed. All except ...
Blood drained from Gilles’s face. His note. He shoved the page into his pocket, ignoring the sting as one edge sliced across his finger. That would lead them right to his house in the Panier district.
He turned an ear toward the others. The men behind him were still discussing the dresses—which would make the most when sold and which to bring home to their wives. Gilles ran his thumb down the stack of letters. How many of them mentioned him? Perhaps none of them, but he couldn’t know unless he broke the seals. He didn’t have room in his pocket to smuggle all of these out.
Gilles pulled open a drawer. He prayed no one else would come upon these until he could return for them. A sheet of paper filled with Caroline’s writing sat atop the items in the drawer. The first line read, “CherGilles.”
His heart leaped to his throat. She’d written to him. He snatched it up and crammed it down his waistcoat.Sacrebleu, how many more things in this house linked her to him in a more intimate way than as just her father’s employee? He pushed the cousin’s letters to the back of the drawer. The gowns would only remain a distraction if he didn’t make a scene.
But she’d written to him. And he hardly knew whether to float into the clouds or cower in the shadows.
CherGilles
