the grand staircase to greet him. As it happened, he was on his way to meet with Lafayette and had only stopped in to make certain she was well after her adventures last night. She told him what had happened and asked if he hadn’t been worried.
“I, worried?” he replied nonchalantly, though Camille thought she detected a shadow of concern in his face. “You are a wonder, mon âme. This pamphlet will be the one that does it,” he said before he kissed her hand good-bye. “I know it.”
But as she watched him go, his long strides eating up the distance to the street, she wasn’t at all certain.
The next day delivered no note from Lasalle. To stay busy, she went with Sophie to Le Sucre. Sitting in the pink-and-white room that had once been a sweet shop, she listened to gossip while she pleated blue, white, and red ribbons for the revolutionary corsages that were so in demand that Sophie and her seamstresses could hardly keep up. In the afternoon, when Sophie went to the workshop to help Rosier with the puppet costumes, a secret smile on her lips, Camille hurried home to rifle through the letters in the silver salver.
Rien.
Failure gnawed at her. Just as relentlessly, she pushed it away.
On the morning of the third day, there was still no news. Determined not to think of it, she wrote a note to Lazare, inviting him for a drive in the Bois de Boulogne. As she dropped sealing wax onto the folded paper, the afternoon unfurled dreamily in her mind: she and Lazare in an open carriage, a picnic basket tucked at their feet, the sun dancing in a lapis sky. Just the two of them together, shoulder to shoulder, nothing to interrupt or pull them apart. And later, beneath a willow whose trailing branches curtained them off from the rest of the world, there would be a blanket spread on the grass, food and drink almost forgotten as everywhere thrummed the drowsy hum of late-summer bees, Lazare stretched out beside her, leaning on his elbow, laughing, his amber-flecked eyes so close, so close she might almost—
But a note came back with his regrets.
He was preparing for the aeronauts’ training that afternoon and could not get away. He wrote: Forgive me. Another time, mon âme. As soon as we can—for where you are concerned, I am loath to wait. She bit back her disappointment. Unsettled, unable even to sit by the courtyard fountain with her new gothic novel, she printed off another five pamphlets, the ink liquid and darkly enticing. Not that there was a need for more. For all she knew, the entire stack of pamphlets was being used to light candles at Lasalle’s.
She had just finished another set when Adèle appeared at the door, carrying a letter. “Madame? This arrived for you.”
Apologetically, Camille held up her ink-stained hands. “Could you tell me who it’s from so I know if I should read it now?”
“Oh! It’s from the bookseller,” she said eagerly. “Madame, is it about the girls?”
“I hope so.” Quickly Camille wiped her hands on her apron. Across the letter marched Lasalle’s firm handwriting. Taking a deep breath, she cracked the seal and unfolded the paper. Despite the large sheet, the note was surprisingly short.
Early sales promising; send more.
–Lasalle
She smiled so broadly that Adèle couldn’t help asking, “Good news, I hope?”
“Incroyable! He wants more of the pamphlets—can you believe it?” She’d have been happy to know he had sold a few. That strange fever that had come over her when she was working … it must have been the feeling that things were coming right. She’d believed the pamphlet was good, but this? The news was dazzling, like wishing for a ten of spades and having it dealt right into her hand.
Adèle beamed. “But that’s wonderful! Shall I send Daumier with the new ones?”
She nearly said yes. “I’ll go. But there’s something else you might do.”
* * *
Just as she was heading into the courtyard with a basket of food Adèle had packed and a bundle of pamphlets snug under her arm, Camille collided with Rosier.
“My apologies!” he exclaimed, flustered. He swept off his hat with a bow. He had abandoned his odd, flopping hat for a smart tricorne, and carried his pipe in one hand and in the other, a swoop of pink cabbage roses. “Are you all right?”
“Of course,” Camille assured him. “I’m quick on my feet.”