Revolution (26 page)

I must lie to one—but which one? Orléans or the queen? If Orléans found me out, I would suffer for it. If the queen did, I would lose her favor. She was a prisoner now and without the power she’d once had, but that might not always be so.

I placed my hand upon the Bible and made the oath. I had figured out what to do. After news broke of the king’s escape, Orléans would surely question me. I would pretend to be as shocked as he was and tell him that I knew nothing about it, that I’d seen nothing, heard nothing. I would say the king and queen had been most secretive and that if they’d involved any of the servants in their plan, they must’ve paid them well, for none had whispered of it.

I would pull it off, I told myself. I was a player, was I not? Orléans would believe me. Perhaps he would not question me at all. Wishing the king well, as he said he did, he would likely be overjoyed that he and his family had got safely away.

Night after night I met Orléans in his chambers to give my reports, and there I lied to him. And to others. To Desmoulins and Marat, Danton, Robespierre, Collot d’Herbois, D’Églantine, and to their strongmen—a revolving pack of Jacobin brigands including Santerre, a brewer from the St-Antoine; Fournier, a failed rum maker from Ste-Domingue who was somehow present at every march and riot; and Rotonde, a teacher of English who circled the Jacobin Club while Robespierre spoke, marking any who sneered or heckled so he could later beat them silly.

The presence of these men unsettled me. I did not understand why Orléans entertained them. He, who wished to help the king, why would he sit with those who wished to do away with kings? Why would he give them food and drink and sometimes gold? My old misgivings returned and I wondered if he’d been sincere when he’d said he wanted only to help the king. He must have sensed my uneasiness because once, after Danton had left, he put his arm around my shoulders and said, Always remember this, sparrow, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

I understood. He wished to play one off against the other and by so doing, gain some sort of advantage. His words calmed me some. They gave me one less thing to worry about, though I still had plenty. It took all the cunning of the actor’s art to keep my voice steady and my legs still as I told Orléans my lies. I’d felt his hands upon me once before and knew I would feel them again if he found out about my falsehoods. Afterward, when I was alone in my garret room, high above his own, I would often puke in my basin from the fear of it.

I had wanted a stage. I had wanted roles. Orléans gave them to me—boy, spy, servant, citizen, bastard, royalist, rebel, patriot, Jacobin. I played them all. There were mornings when his servant, the old man, Nicolas was his name, would bang on my door to wake me and I would jump out of my bed bleary-eyed and terrified, knowing not who I was.

When my hands stopped shaking, I would wash my face, bind my breasts, and dress. I’d breakfast on the rolls, butter, jam, and coffee Nicolas had left outside my door and then I would leave for the Tuileries.

On my way, I’d read the bills and hear boys crying the news. It was always the same—bad. The winter was brutal again. The Seine had frozen solid. Wolves were seen on the edges of the city. Workers in the provinces had struck. Austria and England, furious about the king’s imprisonment in the Tuileries, threatened war.

In the evenings, I would go to the political clubs—the Cordeliers and the Jacobins—as Orléans instructed, and listen to Danton and Robespierre speak. On my way home, raggedy men would thrust pamphlets into my hands that showed the king and queen as goats and pigs, devouring France. The harvest was good this year, the pamphleteers said, so why is there no grain to be had? Because the king secretly orders it held up to starve Paris into submission. The king’s accounts had been made public, they said. He’d paid twenty-eight million livres last year to cancel his brothers’ gambling debts. He’d poured money into his own family’s pockets while the children of France cried for bread.

Most days, I still did not know who I was, but one thing I did know—things did not go well for the king.

When I arrived at the Tuileries on the twentieth of June, I felt immediately that something was afoot. The queen was pale and vexed. Madame Elizabeth was waspish. The king would not eat. I knew then that they would leave that very night and a cold dread gripped me at the thought.

Had they any idea what they were doing? Had they forgotten the Bastille? The march on Versailles? And the Paris mob’s fondness for severing heads from bodies? Had they not heard the rudenesses and threats called at them through the Tuileries gates? Had no one told them of the talk at the market halls, where fishwives promised to rip out their livers and eat them?

The palace walls that kept them in also kept the harsh world out. And now they would step outside, into the very heart of that world, with their white hands and soft feet and gentle words. They would be safe at Montmédy but they had to get there first.

I was very tender with Louis-Charles that day, braving the wrath of the chambermaids to steal sheets to make forts for him. Filching his favorite sweets from the kitchens. Coaxing bite after bite of beefsteak into him at supper to fortify him for what lay ahead.

That night, I helped him wash, put him in his nightshirt, and—after he’d kissed his parents, his aunt, and his sister—tucked him into his bed. He was uneasy and could not settle and demanded many stories from me.

Never leave me, Alex, he said, after I’d finished the last one, the White Cat. You promised you wouldn’t.

I will not, Louis-Charles, I said, but there may come a day when you leave me.

Never. I will never leave you. And when I am king, I shall make you my chief minister, so you will always be near me.

I smiled at this, reminded him that underneath my valet’s uniform I was but a girl and that girls could not be ministers. Then I said he must rest now or his mother would be unhappy. After he had fallen asleep, I quietly packed his favorite soldiers and horses, his lotto and draughts, into a small wooden box and left it at the foot of his bed, hoping that whoever came for him would see it and take it so that he might have something to amuse himself with on the long journey.

Good night, Alex, he murmured as I left his room. God bless you.

God would not bless me. I knew that. For I had cast my lot elsewhere. But for Louis-Charles’ sake, I turned in the doorway and whispered, God bless you, too, little prince. And God speed you.

20 May 1795

It was early morning. The sun was not yet fully up. I was in my room, dressing for work. And then suddenly, I was on the floor, with Orléans standing over me. His blows were so hard that for days after I wore the imprint of his ring tattooed in purple on my cheek.

Where are they? he shouted. Where did they go?

Who?

Do you think me a fool? he bellowed, and hit me again.

Stop, please! I cried, trying to crawl away from him.

They are gone, all of them! They escaped during the night. You knew they would and did not tell me! he shouted.

I knew nothing! I lied.

They had accomplices. They must have. There would have been letters. Money changing hands. You must’ve seen something.

I told you all that I saw. I swear it!

There were more blows, a great many more, until finally I told him the truth. About the king’s plans and his destination. And how the queen had sworn me to silence.

You damned fool! he shouted at me. What have you done? He grabbed hold of my jacket and pulled me up off the floor until my face was only inches from his own. Pray that they are caught, sparrow, he said. Pray like you have never prayed in your whole miserable life.

He let me go and I fell back to the floor. I could not see, there was too much blood in my eyes, but I heard him leave my room. It hurt to move, to breathe, to think. I lay on the floor I know not how long, until finally, I heard footsteps.

Poor player, a voice said from the doorway. My master has used you badly.

It was Nicolas, the old man. He set a basin of water down beside me and wrung out a cloth. I cried out as he wiped the blood from my face.

Things go badly for the duke, he said. The king is gone, and the duke’s hopes with him.

Things go a damned sight worse for me, I said.

The duke is angry, and he has cause to be. If the king reaches Austria, he will get up an army. He will retake France.

Then why is he not glad? He said he wished to help the king. What better help than freedom?

Nicolas laughed.

I do not see what is so funny, I said.

No, you do not, and that is why he uses you. You are blind, child. Blind to all but your own ambition. Orléans is the first prince of the blood and next in line to the throne should the king’s own Bourbon line die out. Did you not know it?

I did not know it and I did not care. I wasn’t listening anymore. I’d had enough. Enough of Orléans. Enough of Nicolas. I tried to get up.

What are you doing? he asked.

Leaving this place. And the devil Orléans. Since the king is gone, he has no further need of me.

Nicolas grabbed my arm. He was no longer laughing. Listen to me, child, he said. Do not go from here unless you can go very far, very fast.

He picked up his basin, threw the bloodied water out my window, and left me. I sank back down upon the floor. Hours later, when I could stand, I hobbled to my bed. Days later, the door opened and Orléans stepped into my room. He wrinkled his nose at the smell.

They have been captured. Bad luck for them. Good luck for you, he said, throwing fresh clothes upon the bed. Wash yourself and get back to your work. And sparrow…

Yes.

Lie to me again and it will not be your bed you crawl to when I’m finished with you, but your grave.

I close the diary and stare at the ceiling.

I see Alex lying on the floor of her room, battered and bloody.

I see Louis-Charles, in his cold, dark cell.

I see Truman waving goodbye.

I see my mother sitting on the edge of her hospital bed.

I see a crappy blue Renault pulling away from me. I see it turning the corner at the end of the street and disappearing.

And then I put the diary down and pop three Qwells. Because I won’t make it through the coming day, never mind the rest of my life, on one.

48

A
madé Malherbeau was a rock star.

I’m standing in front of his portrait, painted by Jean-Baptiste Greuze in 1797, but I could be looking at a photo of Mick Jagger taken by Annie Leibovitz in 1977. Malherbeau’s wearing a white shirt, open at the neck. His long dark hair is falling over his shoulders. He’s got full lips, sculpted cheekbones, and dark, intense eyes. I’ve seen reproductions of the portrait in books but they’re nothing compared to the original.

He’s sitting in a chair, holding a red rose. A thorn from the stem has pricked him. Blood’s dripping from one of his fingers. There’s a table next to him and on top of it are two miniatures in a frame of a man and a woman. The man is dark-haired and dark-eyed. The woman is blond and beautiful. They’re also holding roses.

A plaque on the wall explains that the people in the miniatures are thought to be Malherbeau and a woman he loved. As Malherbeau never married, it’s assumed the relationship was broken off, an idea reinforced by the presence of roses in the miniatures, and the presence of a rose in Malherbeau’s hand—a beauty whose thorns have made him bleed.

I look at the rose more closely. The way the petals are painted, the size of the thorn—I could swear I’ve seen it before but I don’t know where. I stand back and photograph the portrait. Then I move on, getting shots of the walls, with their faded hand-painted paper, the old damask curtains, the views from his windows.

It’s hard going. I feel like the walking wounded. The Qwells kicked in. I slept for a bit, then managed to crawl out of bed around noon, shower, and get myself across Paris to the Bois de Boulogne. I said I would get my outline to my father tonight and I meant it. I’m going to get on a plane tomorrow. All I have to do until then is keep putting one foot in front of the other.

I’ve been here for the last hour taking pictures for my thesis. The staff is cool about cameras as long as you don’t use a flash. Part of the downstairs—the old ballroom—has been made into a concert room; the rest of it is used to showcase Malherbeau’s belongings. So far, I have shots of a vihuela, a baroque guitar, and a mandolin that belonged to the maestro, as well as pictures of clothing, furniture, several coffeepots, sheet music, and statues.

I walk from room to room, taking more pictures. I pass the portrait again, and as I do, I suddenly remember where I’ve seen the rose before—on a coat of arms at G’s house. He said it was very old and that it belonged to the counts of Auvergne. There were words written on it—
From the rose’s blood, lilies grow
.

I wonder if there’s some connection. Probably not. I mean, what could it possibly be? Most likely Malherbeau’s rose was a sad symbol of lost love. Like the plaque said.

My eyes travel from the rose to Malherbeau’s eyes, so dark and haunted. I feel for him. I feel like him. Not like the genius composer Malherbeau. More like the loser star-crossed lover Malherbeau. I wonder if a broken heart was what inspired his amazing music. I wonder what went wrong between him and the blond woman.

Maybe they had a fight. Maybe she fell for someone else. Maybe her dad didn’t like musicians. Maybe she lived in Brooklyn.

“A chamber concert is starting soon, miss,” a staff member says to me. “It’s part of our Saturday afternoon series. If you’d like to attend, you might want to go up and get a seat.”

I look at my watch—it’s four o’clock—and tell him no. I really would like to hear it but I have to get back to G’s house. I still have a lot of work to do.

I give Malherbeau one last look. So much sadness behind those eyes. And so much music. “I wish I knew what happened to you,” I whisper.

I walk to the door and let myself out. As I close it behind me, a lone guitar starts to play.