Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [87]
I wanted so much to believe him. To believe he meant to do good. To believe I did.
But the king has his people’s love again, I said, testing him. He went to the Assembly last winter. He made an oath there to defend liberty. He promised to support the constitution. He went to the Celebration of Unity in July and swore to uphold the decrees of the Assembly. All of Paris was there and all saw him do it.
Not all of Paris heard him, Orléans said. I did. I heard the words stick in his throat. It is not enough, the oaths he made. For Roland, yes. For Desmoulins and Danton. But not for Robespierre. He is the most dangerous sort of man, Robespierre—one who will do good at any cost. The king is in great danger, and his family with him. That is why you must do this. To help me help him. To help all of them. There may yet be time to avert disaster.
I was still suspicious. You do not really care what happens to the king, I said. You wish to trade on the love I bear Louis-Charles. To use that love for your own ends. Whatever they may be.
How he laughed then. Ah, sparrow, tell yourself that if you must, he said. It is an easier thing than the truth.
And pray, sir, what is that?
That I trade upon one thing, and one thing only—the love you bear yourself.
14 May 1795
I went back to my family’s room to tell them I was leaving, that I’d found employment with the Duc d’ Orléans. Theatrical work, I said. It was not completely a lie.
My grandmother was against it. She knew what Orléans was. He will ruin her, she said. Perhaps he already has.
Ruin her? my uncle snorted. For what? Marriage? What man would have her? She is no beauty and we have no money. She is better off with him and so are we.
I looked at them. At my thin brothers. At my weary mother. I loved them in my way, I did. But I was hungry. And so were they.
Orléans had given me a room high above his own. He had given me money with which to keep myself. I put most of it in my mother’s hands, kissed her goodbye, and left. Some months later, I heard my grandmother had died. I heard that my father had staged a play that mocked the new tyrant, Robespierre. An order was given for his arrest and they all fled to London.
That is what I heard. I do not know for certain. I never saw any of them again.
42
I’m looking out my window at the lights of the buildings across from me when my phone rings. Rain’s hitting the glass, reflecting the light in a million tiny drops. I wish it could wash away the mistakes. The bad moves. The guilt and the sorrow. Mine. Alex’s. The whole world’s.
“Sing to me,” I say into the phone. “Sing me the one about Sacré-Coeur. It’s so beautiful.”
“I can’t. It’s so crazy tonight, Andi. There are three conventions in the city this weekend. I started my shift at four and I haven’t been without a fare since. I’ve got four people stuffed in this shit-box of a car right now. The traffic is impossible. But listen, I’ll make it up to you. Lay your clothes out.”
“What?”
“Lay some clothes out on the floor of your room so you don’t have to hunt for them in the dark. Then put your phone on vibrate so I don’t wake the whole house up, and leave it on your pillow.”
“And why am I doing this?”
Virgil swears again. Not at me. Under his breath. I can hear his dispatcher in the background, yelling and bitching.
“Just do it,” he says to me.
“It’s weird.”
“Yeah. I know. So’s singing lullabies over the phone. Everything’s weird since I met you, Andi. Go to sleep. I’ll see you soon.”
43
My cell phone goes off, buzzing against my cheek like some horrible giant bug.
“Yeah?” I rasp into it.
“Hey, Andi, it’s me. You ready? Come downstairs.”
“Virgil?