Enchantée(130)

“It suits you, mademoiselle,” Rosier said.

Camille pressed the dress close: it would be a perfect fit. “Where did you find this? It’s beautiful.”

“At the Foire du Saint-Esprit, of course. Might even have been the queen’s, for all we know.”

Near the balloon, Armand was shouting for Rosier.

“Duty calls,” Rosier said, pulling out his watch. His eyebrows elevated practically to his hairline. “The launch is in seven minutes, mes amis! Please hurry, or I’ll have to start screaming.” He raced away, jostling a path through the crowd, leaving Lazare and Camille standing together behind the screen.

From the other side, they heard a low and steady roar. How many were there in the crowd? A hundred? A thousand?

“I can’t do this,” Camille and Lazare both said at once—and then burst out laughing.

“It’s ridiculous to pretend to be the king,” Lazare said, exasperated. “His Majesté would never, ever go up in a balloon. And the people don’t want to see the king in a balloon—not now. Not after the Bastille.”

“Perhaps they’d want him to sail away somewhere.” Camille smirked. “But we can’t do that. Sail away, I mean.”

“Can’t we?” Lazare asked hopefully. “Are you certain?”

“What about the pamphlets?” she said, though she was secretly pleased with his idea of sailing away together.

All around them, the people of Paris were congregating. On their way to their seats, tickets in hand, talking and laughing, they passed to one side or the other of the screen, like a river around a little island. They were here to see the balloon. Rosier was right about the power of the spectacle. But this spectacle couldn’t be two people dressed as the king and queen. It had to be the balloon and two ordinary citizens. The hope of it. The possibility.

Camille took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

Halfway to the platform, by the ticket-taker’s tent, Sophie, Chandon, and Foudriard were waiting for them. Chandon and Foudriard embraced Lazare and then Camille, Chandon especially pulling her close. “When I dragged you into that card game, never did I expect you would save my life,” he said. “I am so grateful to you. More than I can say.” He kissed her on the cheek. “If there is anything you need, you will always tell me, non?”

“I will, dear friend,” Camille said. When she pulled back and saw how his handsome face was more like his own, less haggard, and how the lively color had returned to it, she thought she might cry with happiness.

“And you, madame? Will you return to court?” Foudriard asked.

“I’m not certain. Suddenly I have an estate to oversee and a house in town to put in order. I suppose it will depend on what happens next.” As she said this, she became acutely aware of Lazare next to her.

Foudriard bowed. “Whatever you do, it will be admirable, madame. The courage you showed at the duel is exactly what I hope for from my officers.”

Camille blushed. “You’re too kind, as always. And you two? Will you stay at court?”

“Lazare!” Rosier called.

“Excuse me,” Lazare said and took off through the crowd to where Rosier stood waving.

“The only thing that kept me there was my chevalier, and Séguin’s threat to take him from me.” Chandon exhaled. “Now we’ll go to my parents’ place in the country to rest and drink cider.”

“Not for long, though,” Foudriard cautioned. “The Marquis de Lafayette has just been appointed the commander-in-chief of the new National Guard. Officers will be much in demand in Paris and elsewhere.”

“What’s happening, Foudriard?” Camille asked.

“Unrest in the countryside, I’m afraid.”

“And Aurélie? Has anyone heard from her?”

“Guilleux sent a letter,” Chandon said soothingly. “They arrived safely.”

“I don’t know how long this peace will last.” Foudriard sounded worried. “The discontent began last year, as grain prices went up, and now that the reforms the peasants hoped for haven’t happened, they’re marching against the nobles and refusing to pay their taxes. I don’t blame them.”

“Again, wishing me bankrupt!” Chandon exclaimed. “Perhaps I will have to join the revolutionaries.”

“And why not?” Camille teased.

“If they could protect me from blood-sucking magicians, I might consider it.”

The Vicomte de Séguin was gone, but there were thousands of aristocrats like him. Possibly they were magicians, but more than that, they were people who believed in the old ways, the hierarchies and the taxes, the muzzled press and the class system and the rules. If there was any hope for France, the system would have to be taken down, piece by piece.

And magic would be gone with it.

On the night the Bastille fell, Camille had sensed it: the river of history had bent its course. That life at court carried on, for the most part oblivious, meant that the change would be that much more abrupt. Perhaps even a kind of war if the people were not listened to.

Change was coming, rising on the wind.

Tears pooled in Camille’s eyes. “Adieu, Chandon.”

“How could you say such a dreadful thing?” Chandon squeezed her hand tight. “You must say instead, ‘à bient?t.’ For we will see each other very soon again.”