“I was about to take these pamphlets to the bookseller.”
“I am well aware of your latest and most extraordinary pamphlet—Sophie has already told me about it! Which is why I came to show you this—take a look.” Giving her the roses to hold, he extracted from his pocket a rolled-up newspaper and unrolled it with a snap. “See? Your pamphlet is quoted here.”
“But it’s only been a few days.” She stared at the tiny print. It was a very small mention in a rectangular box at the bottom of the page. Taking the paper from him, Camille read it aloud. “‘Camille Durbonne—’”
“How daring you are to use your real name!” Rosier remarked. “Why not sign yourself Anonymous like so many other pamphleteers?”
She’d had enough of disguises and pretending. “Jean-Paul Marat uses his own name. And Giselle was willing to say so much. If they are brave enough to reveal themselves, then so must I be.”
Rosier raised an approving eyebrow. “Continue.”
“‘Madame Durbonne,’” she began again, “‘has done Something Extraordinary.’” Her breath caught. “Oh, Rosier!”
He beamed. “Read on, read on.”
She wanted to rush through, inhaling it, but she made herself read slowly. “‘She has given us a True and Authentic Insight to a Girl of the Streets, as if We were sitting just opposite Her, such that any Reader might understand the Sadness and Pain of a Girl’s Plight and how she came to be Where She Is, through No Fault of her Own.’” Through no fault of her own—that was exactly what she’d hoped to show. “‘Told in Plain and Moving Words, the Flower Seller’s story would Convince Anyone that Something Must be Done. Who are We if the Sorriest Among Us receives no Aid?’” Camille frowned at the last line. “‘The sorriest among us’ goes too far. Don’t you think? The girls are so clever and determined.”
“My thoughts exactly. But don’t stop, the final sentence awaits.”
Finding her place, she read, “We anticipate the Next Story, and Hope that the Intrepid Writer will succeed in Convincing the People of Paris to Prevent the Razing of the Lost Girls’ home. WE are Convinced.”
“There!” exclaimed Rosier. “Good, non?”
It was so good she could hardly believe it. It was the kind of good that made the sky seem bigger. “Can you imagine if we managed to change the tide, Rosier? The girls might keep their house and their independence. And then—who knows what else could happen!”
“Brava! Keep going. You will be a star in the firmament of literary Paris, I know it.”
Seriously, she said, “It is the girls’ stories that matter, Rosier.”
He waved his pipe at the idea. “Of course, of course. But some small credit must be due to the one who does the writing, non? I have always sensed it—first, Jeanne d’Arc of the Air! And now—Jeanne d’Arc of the Seine?”
“More like Jeanne d’Arc of the Mud,” she said, remembering her ruined shoes, “but thank you, Rosier.” She looked at him more carefully: smartly tied cravat, clean suit, on his coat an elegant tricolor rosette just like the ones Sophie made—there was a new brightness about him. “You haven’t said why you’ve come.”
“To deliver the newspaper to you, naturellement, and the flowers to your sister before we go to her shop. She has preliminary costumes for Les Merveilleux to show me and claims they’re much better than what I’d come up with. There is no doubt about that.”
“I think I heard her upstairs—shall I let her know you’re here?”
“Not at all! Beauty takes its time. But I’ll relieve you of the flowers.”
Before handing them to him, Camille brought them to her nose, inhaling scents of jasmine and clove. “She will love them.”
“Will she?” Rosier mused. “Or will she stick them in a vase with bouquets from all her other admirers?”
It had taken only one ride, two weeks ago, among the jostling, peacocking crowds at Longchamp before the invitations piled up for Sophie. Last week alone her presence had been requested at an English tea, a midnight dance, a card party: every hostess in town wanted to display this pretty mademoiselle who’d sprung up from nowhere to live at the mysterious Hôtel Séguin. “They think us wealthy,” Camille had said in Sophie’s ear one night. “And what of it?” her sister had said with a toss of her head. “Is anyone who they really are? I for one wish to enjoy it.”
To Sophie’s credit, she didn’t repeat the error she’d made with Séguin. Shrewdly she saw through the dull, rich suitors as well