Enchantée(54)

“You resemble her?”

“My coloring. But I have my father’s features.” He ran a finger along his eyebrow, thinking.

It hit her then, the sadness. “Why did you say ‘she was’?”

“My mother died of malaria.”

She wished she dared to comfort him, put her hand over his. “I’m sorry.”

“I never knew her. When we returned to France, my father remarried. He wishes me to be French, with a Frenchman’s sense of duty and honor, whatever that may mean,” he said, scornfully. “My father paid my tutor élouard to teach me Italian, Latin, horsemanship, dueling. All the things a French boy such as I should know.”

Below them, thin clouds obscured the city. Even the river had disappeared.

“Despite those things, élouard showed me it was important to dare, to experiment. To forget the rules. It almost drove me mad, his always asking: why? Why this and not that? He took nothing for granted. A different kind of honor, I suppose.”

Camille nodded. élouard sounded a lot like Papa.

“It was élouard, not my father, who took me to see the montgolfière, at Versailles. Then back at home, we made our own balloon, a little one.” Lazare paused. “Is any of this interesting?”

“Yes, tell me.” It sounded as if he hardly spoke of this to anyone.

“He wanted to send up a kid goat, but the thought of the goat getting hurt brought me to tears. élouard teased me for being sentimental, but in the end, I was right—the balloon got stuck in an oak and we couldn’t get it down again. After that, it was all I wanted to do. Build a balloon, get up in the air.”

“To fly away,” Camille said, almost to herself. Hadn’t she thought the same thing?

“Exactly.” His hand moved next to hers on the rail. They were nearly touching.

Camille did not dare move.

“Lazare!” shouted Armand. “Stop talking nonsense and help me release some air! We’ve got to start our descent!”

“I never got to ask you—” Lazare said.

Armand’s scowling face appeared next to Lazare’s shoulder. “Quit your gallantry or we’re going to end up flying to England. If we run out of fuel and fall in the water, just know I didn’t bring a cork vest for her.”

Lazare held up his hand. “Calme-toi, my friend. If we fall in the water, she can have mine.” He flicked open the silver case of his pocket watch. “Armand’s right. We’ve got to get going.”

Behind her, Lazare and Armand pulled the rope tied to the release valve. The balloon began to sink almost immediately. Lazare threw a heavy horse blanket over the brazier to dampen the fire. Smoke swarmed out from underneath it, hiding him and then revealing him. He knelt by the basket of instruments, consulting their faces and taking notes on their numbers. He was a long time at it, his back to her as he jotted numbers with a stubby pencil in the notebook he kept in his pocket.

As they sank, the earth rose to meet them. They flew over a pasture, the balloon’s shadow racing along the ground below them. Wild-eyed sheep scrambled ahead of the dark shape, their worried bleats floating up to Camille. Now the brazier smoked worse than ever; Paris disintegrated in a haze of blurred buildings and towers.

She did not want to go back. Not to 11 rue Charlot, not to all the problems that awaited her there. If she had her wish, they would sail all the way to England.

Her stomach clenched as they dropped. Closer and closer, until she could see rocks and footprints in the soil below. “Where are the others?” She tried to sound nonchalant.

“There,” Lazare said, pointing to a cluster of houses from which two boys on horseback emerged at a gallop, one of the steeds Rosier’s tall gray. “They’ll try to catch us now.”

The balloon swept down, the ground rushing closer. Rosier was yelling; the other boy urged his horse on with his heels.

“Come, Armand!” Lazare called out. “We can’t let them get to us before we’re on the ground!”

Armand released the last gasp of hot air. They sank to the earth, touched once, twice, and were still. Rosier flung himself off his horse and ran toward them, already shouting. “What a landing! What skill! The Prince and Princess of the Air!”

“And me?” said Armand, tossing Rosier a rope. “Don’t I warrant a mention?”

“Bah, you’re not in this story!” Rosier pulled back on the line, holding it tight. “My story is full of passion! Poetry! Danger and thrills! But, if I ever write something in praise of tiny little numbers in a row—then, Armand, you will be the hero.”

Lazare hopped over the edge of the basket and Rosier embraced him, kissing him on both cheeks. “Formidable, formidable! Get Mademoiselle out of that basket—not that she doesn’t look well there, not at all—and I’ll uncork the wine!”

Before she could step out, Lazare put his hands on Camille’s waist and swung her over the basket’s edge. She stumbled a little when she landed and fell forward into his arms. For a moment, he held her close to his chest. His heart against hers thudded once, twice, and then he said, softly: “You liked it?”

“I loved it,” she replied.

“Bravo!” cried Rosier, clapping his hands.

From his saddlebag Rosier produced a bottle of wine and Lazare poured quickly, sloshing the golden liquid into their outstretched glasses. As they stood around the basket, Rosier scribbling on a piece of paper, Lazare toasting Armand’s scientific prowess, everyone laughing, Camille sipped her wine and studied them. They were all so alive. She wanted to hold on to this—the boys’ laughing faces, the feeling that she might now be included in their group, what Lazare had said to her up in the air, the way she found him looking at her—all of it.