Enchantée(111)

What had happened with Sophie was her fault—she saw that clearly now.

She remembered how she’d trusted the high wall surrounding the H?tel Théron to keep danger out. If she hadn’t been blinded by Versailles’ glitter, she might have moved them somewhere farther away—Lyon? Nantes?—where distance would have been the wall and Alain would never have found them.

But she hadn’t.

She had lost sight of the most important thing.



* * *



Once at the palace, Camille wove her way through the clusters of gossiping aristocrats in the Hall of Mirrors, all of them exclaiming about the frightful storming of the Bastille as they planned all tomorrow’s parties. By the windows that opened onto the balustrade, she spotted Aurélie, the Baron de Guilleux, and Lord Willsingham together, deep in hushed conversation. When Camille drew close, their faces brightened with relief.

Aurélie threw her arms around Camille. “Ma belle! We were so worried when we heard the news from Paris! But you seem fine, non? Whatever happened to the dress you were wearing last night?”

“I’m not certain,” Camille said carefully. “The dye had been poorly fixed—I spilled wine on it and the color started to run. It was too ruined even to give to my maid.”

“Sadly, there are much more important issues than ruined dresses, mesdames,” Guilleux said. His sunburned cheeks were stubbled with a day’s-worth of beard. “Baroness de la Fontaine, Lord Willsingham has offered his carriage to take Aurélie back to her estate. I will accompany her.”

“Come with us, Cécile,” Aurélie said hurriedly. “There’s not much to do in the country and pardieu, my husband adds nothing to dinner conversation but lectures on the best kind of rabbit hutch or some such idiocy. But it’s lovely there and I would be overjoyed to have you with me.” Aurélie’s smile faltered at the edges. “Please. I will fear for you if you stay here.”

“Damn me, this trouble is going to stir up you nobility,” Willsingham said in his terrible French. “Once people break in one place, they break in every place.”

“He means,” Guilleux said, patting Willsingham on the shoulder, “that things are going to get worse for us from now on. And I don’t doubt it. It’s only a matter of time and then we’ll all find ourselves with our heads on pikes.”

“Julien! It won’t come to that,” Aurélie exclaimed.

“It will if you stay here,” Willsingham said. “Go to your estates in the country. And if you don’t feel safe there, come to England. My roof has holes but the house is large.”

“But how will you get to your estate? There are bread riots in the provinces!” Camille said, thinking of her friends in their lavish carriages. “My brother, who was to be sent to guard the grain wagons, told me. Anyone, but especially nobles, suspected of hoarding grain has been threatened—some even killed. How can you know it will be safer there?”

Aurélie’s pretty face grew somber. “I don’t. But at Versailles I have only a room on a hallway with a tiny lock on the door. Anyone who comes to the palace can find me, eventually. At our estate, at least we have a moat.” She smiled. “A deep one. And many guards. We could hold a siege there. Imagine, Cécile!” she said, warming to her subject. “We would be utterly safe.”

A castle with a moat would be heaven, if she had Sophie with her. “Soon, perhaps—but my sister is in Paris. I can’t leave yet.” She hesitated. “Chandon? Have you seen him?”

Aurélie shook her head. “I’ve searched everywhere. He looked terrible last night. Tell him, when you see him, that he should go home, too. Don’t let him wait too long, d’accord?”

Camille nodded. She couldn’t speak.

“Then this is good-bye for now,” Aurélie said, kissing Camille. “Our first stop is Tours; we leave immediately. You have my card. Come anytime—no need to send word, just come.”

Camille embraced Aurélie and then watched as the three of them hurried down the glittering hall. Maybe she would go, once she got Sophie to see that eloping with Séguin was disastrous. They both would be better off away from Paris.

As she made her way to the queen’s rooms, Camille rehearsed Madame Théron’s instructions. She would give the letter to one of her ladies-in-waiting. She would be polite, but not afraid. Determined. The queen must take pity on her, see the danger of the situation—help her. At the doors to the queen’s antechamber, Camille paused, set her shoulders back, and pressed the flat of her hand to her bodice, over her stomach. The dress shifted to meet her palm, reassuring her with its sangfroid. Camille brought a smile to her lips and went in.

There was no queue of courtiers waiting to speak to the queen at her morning toilette. Instead, Marie Antoinette sat almost alone at her dressing table, her morning robe loose around her shoulders. Behind her stood her long-nosed hairdresser, deftly coiling a lock of the queen’s hair into place. In front of her, pots of rouge, tubs of creams, and several hairbrushes spread out across the table. Mixed among them were a hand of cards, facedown, and a tiny, half-empty cup of chocolate.

“Majesté,” said one of the ladies-in-waiting, as she folded a Kashmiri shawl. “Madame la Baroness de la Fontaine is here.”