Enchantée(131)

“Of course you’re right,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “See you soon.”

Knuckling away tears, he gave Camille a little push toward the platform where Lazare stood, next to the balloon. It tugged at its tethers, its silken shell shimmering in the wind. “That gorgeous boy is waiting for you.”



* * *



As she made her way along the edge of the rope that cordoned off the crowd from the platform, Rosier and Lazare came running up alongside. “Mademoiselle!” Rosier exclaimed. “What are you wearing? This is not the plan!”

“Rosier,” Camille said, “remember at the salon, when Lafayette asked, ‘What good is a balloon?’”

“Yes.” He gave an impatient sigh. “And? I imagine you’re going to say the purpose of a balloon is not to make money. Which we just did, by the way, lots and lots of it. You’ll get your balloon adventure over the Alps, Lazare.”

Lazare shook his head in disbelief and embraced Rosier. “I don’t know how you do it, you madman, but you’re incredible.” He turned to Camille. “What is the purpose, then?”

“The purpose is to fly. That’s it! Don’t you see? It’s about hope. If we go up, dressed like ourselves, bedraggled and human, then we give people hope. Everyone longs for freedom. To fly and to rise. We can show them it’s possible.”

“She’s right,” said Lazare. “We go as ourselves. No more pretending, n’est-ce pas, Camille?” His eyes were very serious.

“Never again.”

Together they entered the balloon’s chariot and—after doing a final check of the fire, the ballast, and the newly repaired release valve—Armand closed the wicker door behind them. “Bonne chance, mademoiselle,” he said without a trace of irony. “The sky stands open.”

“Let us go that way,” she responded and was rewarded with a quick grin, which made her happier than she’d imagined a grin from Armand ever could. Rosier shot up a flare—the crowd gasped—and his helpers unwound the lines from the long stakes plunged into the earth.

Standing by the brazier, Camille held Lazare’s hand. She didn’t ever want to let it go. The events of the last weeks dimmed in the face of the vast crowd, some standing, some sitting, all of them cheering. “How strong they are, all of them here, gathered to see this. I can’t believe it! All for your balloon.”

“Our balloon.”

Camille watched him watching them. As emotions played across his face, tears pooled in his eyes. He didn’t try to brush them away.

“Have you become sentimental, Lazare?”

“Not at all, ma belle,” he said, pulling her close. “Imagine how I’ll be when we sail over the Alps.”

Rosier released another flare, and Camille startled, ducking her head against Lazare’s shoulder.

“Here we go!”

Slowly, serenely, the balloon rose, higher and higher until the lines flapped loose and she was no longer tethered to the earth. The crowd gasped, waving their flags. Tearing at the twine around the pamphlets, Camille grabbed a handful and tossed them overboard. As they fluttered and swooped to earth, hundreds of hands shot up to catch them.

“Which is your favorite part?” she asked Lazare as the balloon steadily rose.

“From the Americans’ Declaration of Independence? You don’t already know?” Lazare teased.

She wanted to hear the words from his lips. “Tell me.”

“‘The pursuit of happiness.’” He drew Camille toward him. “Which I intend to pursue.”

“Oh? How?”

“Our world is changing. I don’t know what’s going to happen today, or tomorrow, or the day after that, but whatever it is, Camille, I want to go through it with you.”

Everything inside her rose up to meet him—everything, everything, everything. She reached up to gently trace the scar from the duel, then let her fingers linger in the tender place under his jaw where his pulse beat.

“Mon Dieu,” he said, low in her ear, “in all my dreams, I never imagined this.” And then, with the wind spinning around them, they kissed.

Slowly, she eased her hands around the back of his neck. His arms slid down her back to her waist, bringing her closer. And then, his mouth against hers, she gave herself up to the kiss.

The heat and desire and wanting of the kiss at the opera was still there. But that had been a changeling kiss, a turned coin that could at any time twist back to what it was, a bent nail or dented button. But this? This was true gold, a solid gleaming certainty.

Below, the crowd roared.

When they broke apart, laughing, their arms around each other’s waists, Camille caught sight of Chandon and Foudriard, Sophie and Rosier, standing together. The wind caught Sophie’s hair and shook it out as if it were a banner made of cloth-of-gold. She waved, blowing kisses. There were roses in her cheeks.

Her friends’ faces soon became indistinguishable, the crowd no bigger than her palm. Hands clasped, Camille and Lazare watched as the city of Paris, its cobbled streets and tiled roofs, its squares and vineyards and mansions, drifted beneath them. At the ruined fortress of the Bastille, people carted off bricks for souvenirs. At the Tuileries, swarming members of the staff prepared for the king’s visit. And through all this chaos and glory snaked the Seine, the sun glittering silver and gold on her waters as she wound her way into the future.