From the hallway came Adèle’s voice. “Madame? An urgent letter for you, by messenger.”
“I suppose I must.” Camille called out, “Come!”
A bit nervously, Adèle entered holding the letter tray; as soon as Camille had taken the note from her, she curtsied and fled. “I think she’s smitten with you,” Camille said as she broke the seal. It was from the bookseller, Lasalle. As she read, her heart began to pound.
“What is it?”
Wide-eyed, she said, “The chance of a lifetime! Lazare, we must go to Versailles!” She leaped from the sofa and ran to the screen where a few dresses hung on hooks beside his coat. She stepped into a flouncing set of petticoats, then slipped into her stays, snugging them tight around her ribs. Apart from his coat, Lazare’s clothes lay strewn about the room. She picked up his cravat and tossed it at him.
“But why?”
“Women from Paris are marching to demand bread from the king! They’re going all the way to Versailles.” Quickly, she twisted up her hair and pinned it. “If we leave now, I could be the first to write about it.” She glanced at the paper again. “There are already several thousand women marching, and they are bringing in people from the shops and markets to join them!”
She imagined the women arm in arm, sauntering down the streets. Other Parisians joining in, seeing how necessary it was to support the woman who had the least and the most to fight for. Realizing that they shared a common cause. It would be glorious. That alone would persuade the king. It would be nothing like the storming of the Bastille. This would be a peaceful affirmation of the revolution’s ideals.
“The revolution continues,” he said darkly. “After that dinner, I’d had enough to last me a while.”
“But women standing up to the powerful is what revolution should be.” Camille tugged on the dress she’d chosen, a simple gown in celadon green. “Will you lace me up?”
Lazare rose and came to stand behind her. Slowly but firmly he tugged the laces that ran up the back of her dress. His breath on the nape of her neck made her tremble.
“You think these market women are any different than the revolutionaries at that dinner?” he asked.
“What reason would they have to pretend? They are hungry and angry and want justice.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” He did not sound convinced.
She desperately wanted him to come with her. “What is it that’s bothering you, if it’s not the women?”
Carefully, he tightened her lacings. “When we were at Lille … all Lafayette could talk about was war.” He dropped his voice in a perfect imitation of Lafayette’s. “Of course,” he said in English before shifting back to French, “it is what they would do in America!”
“But going to war would be a disaster!” It would only increase the suffering of the poor, diverting food to the army and attention away from their plight. And the revolution would become splintered, a battle fought on at least two fronts.
“He does what he believes is best for France.” He gave her laces a final, definitive pull. “I wish I’d never become involved with it. But there was such pressure to say yes.”
“Because you needed the measurements for your cloud studies?” she guessed.
“In part.”
“Is it the pilots?” She was almost afraid to ask. “Do they still not respect your command?”
His hands lingered on her waist. “That’s been resolved.”
She wished he would tell her what was wrong, what troubled him—what secrets he was keeping. Instead she said, “Come with me, Lazare.”
“You don’t need me with you, fretting over how the revolution is losing its way.”
“Listen, my love.” Camille cradled his face in her hands. “You doubt the revolution. I don’t blame you. It doesn’t sit entirely well with me, either.” If he only knew how the revolution threatened her. “But please—come with me today. See for yourself. It won’t be about Lafayette’s strategy or courtiers who change with the wind. Instead it will be the hardworking women of Paris demanding bread from their king. This peaceful march will be the people standing up.”
His eyes did not leave hers. What did he see there? Her hope—or her fear? “You truly wish me to go with you?”
“There’s nothing I wish more.” She would show him that the revolution was more than spying at the Austrian border. It was more than speeches or raising money or wearing tricolor cockades in your hat. The revolution was what was happening with