Enchantée(108)

“Everyone’s asleep, except me.”

“Wake my coachman, please,” she said.

“How much have you got?”

She’d left her purse somewhere, dropped it when she’d fled the party. She patted her skirts where the hidden pockets were: empty. “I’ve nothing with me, but once we get to my house I can—”

“Promises, promises! And underneath, all lies, I’ll warrant. What care have you people ever had for the likes of us?”

In the distance, beyond the palace gardens, thunder rumbled. In its roar, Camille heard the growl of cannon and muskets. If no one could be found to take her, what would she do? Walk? She was so desperate to go that she was ready to drop to her knees and beg when, for the first time, the groom seemed to see her tattered cloth-of-gold dress. She saw him realize the gown she wore looked like a castoff.

“Wait.” He squinted. “You’re a servant? Why do you want a carriage at this time of night?”

Camille didn’t hesitate. “I have to get home to my mistress. You know how they are, not caring one jot for us, only their greedy selves.” At least her despair was real. “If I don’t, she’ll sack me for certain. Then what will I do?”

“You should have said that to begin with,” the groom said, more kindly. “We must stick together, non? I’ll fetch the coachman and you’ll be on your way.”

He ran off, shouting.

A wave of nausea rose into Camille’s throat. She had become just like the aristocrats she’d once loathed: heedless, careless, distracted. People were being beheaded in Paris and she had left Sophie there.

Alone.





57


Somewhere in Paris, the Théron carriage shuddered to a halt. Outside, a man was shouting; the carriage tilted as one of the horses shied, its hooves clattering on the cobbles.

Camille peered between the curtains. A thickset man holding a torch stood by the lead horse, his fingers threaded through the bridle’s cheek strap, close to the bit. In the torchlight, the horse’s neck shone black with sweat. The man shouted questions at the coachman.

What if they wouldn’t be let through? She wanted to scream in frustration. How could she have left for Versailles without knowing Sophie’s whereabouts?

Somewhere a drum was beating, quick and tight, its tempo like her heart’s.

She had to get back to the H?tel Théron.

It was so dark it was impossible to make out any buildings. Only around the torchlights’ halos could she see anything. Outside, the voices rose, louder, angrier.

She sat like that—small, nervous sweat trickling down her back—for what felt like hours. She did not know how many prisoners had escaped or how dangerous they were, or who had done the beheading. The city exulted, hungry. The walls of the carriage felt thin as paper. She was both hidden and exposed, a mouse holding still under a cloth.

Then the carriage jounced as the coachman stepped down from the box. A moment later he opened the door.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, carefully. “The people have attacked the Bastille, searching for weapons. Some prisoners were freed—not many—but in defending the fortress, the governor of the Bastille was killed. I am sorry to say they cut off his head with a knife and paraded it on a spike around the city. Soldiers have been mobilized to keep the peace. It will take some time before we will be allowed to pass. Others ahead of us are waiting, too.”

But Camille could not stay. “Where are we now?”

“Not far from the H?tel Théron. Four streets distant.”

“Thank you for being honest.” She gathered her skirts. “I must go.”

“Mademoiselle, it’s not safe!”

“My sister—” Camille’s voice cracked. “I’m worried for her. I didn’t see her before I left for Versailles and now—”

The coachman nodded. “Slip out quick. Keep your wits about you and stop for no one.” Locking one door, Camille unlatched the one opposite. Not far away, an explosion.

If she hesitated, if she delayed—

She closed the door behind her and ran.



* * *



Paris was a scene from hell.

Rioters ran along suddenly unfamiliar lanes, shouting, “Down with the nobles!” The weaving light of the torches they carried distorted their faces. “Down with the king and the queen, his Austrian whore!”

Fleeing down the center of the streets, Camille stumbled into a group of young men in leather aprons—Butchers’ apprentices, she thought wildly, or ironsmiths? Their faces blazed. One of them gleefully beat a drum as he shouted for the others to march in time. Two of the biggest shoved someone ahead of them. A nobleman. Not much older than her friends. His wig hung askew, and he was bleeding from a cut on his temple. His costly lace cravat had been ripped from his throat; he’d also lost his coat and one of his red-heeled court shoes. Crimson choke-rings marked his neck.

He stumbled as they pushed him on. In that instant, as his captor yanked him to his feet, he saw Camille. He took in her gold dress, the glittering brooch she’d forgotten to unpin from her shoulder.

Run, he mouthed.

She ran.

She fled down alleyways and through the ragged streets of her old neighborhood, always heading toward the safety of the Hotel Théron. In the rue de Perle, there were broken windows, doors wrenched off their frames. A load of bricks lay scattered on the floor of a bakery, dusted with flour. Baskets lay upturned, the bread gone; a strongbox yawned open, empty. She crept along the walls, keeping to the darkest darks of the shadows, until she came to the gate of the Théron mansion.