scatter from the settee, jumping and nipping at the heels of the king.
“Your Majesty.” I stand and then sink into my lowest curtsy. Madame Elisabeth snatches up the three papers I’ve brought.
The king is smiling. “Please, sit,” he tells me.
I take a seat on a backless stool while he occupies the embroidered chair. Even in the Salon de Cire, I was never this close to the king. He smells of alcohol but doesn’t appear to be drunk. “I think it went well today.”
“Your speech was excellent,” Madame Elisabeth says kindly. “The people could hear you at the back of the hall. Ask Marie.”
The King of France looks to me. “Were you in the audience?”
“Yes. Your Majesty’s voice carried to the very farthest seats.”
This makes him happy. My words—the words of a common woman—have delighted the king. “I have very high hopes for this assembly,” he reveals. “Even with their little mutinies, these are sensible men. Men who want the best for us and for our kingdom.”
I flinch at this astonishing ignorance. But Madame Elisabeth does nothing to correct him.
“The queen thinks I am being too kind about this hat rebellion. But the people love me. We must allow the Third Estate their small defiances.”
I wait for the princesse to produce the newspapers. I wait for her to tell him about the
MAY
8, 1789
—JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU
THE PAPERS ARE CALLING HIM ROB-PIERRE, ROBESTS-PIESSE, even Robertz-Peirre. In the Salle des Etats, where everything echoes beneath the barrel-vaulted roof and the speakers compete with chatty audiences to be heard, only his friends from our salon, Camille and Marat, have gotten it right. Their articles detail his sudden rise to prominence, stressing how this provincial lawyer from Arras has taken the Estates-General by surprise. The
Although neither Madame Elisabeth nor I have visited the Estates-General again, it’s impossible to avoid the news. It’s in the halls, on the streets, and in hurried whispers during Mass. When the princesse asks me if I’ve heard of this man, this Robespierre, I admit that I have some acquaintance with him.
“He is bringing the entire Estates-General to a standstill,” she accuses, and she’s not wrong. As it is, each estate has one vote when ruling on taxes or fiscal reform. Since the clergy and nobility will vote together to preserve their privileges, Robespierre is insisting that the votes of every
“You must be bored in Montreuil,” he jokes, since he has only one letter for me. But he looks well. And again, his shoes are new. This time the buckles are gold.
“Gifts from Abrielle?” I ask.
“She is very generous.”
“Is that part of her charm?”
He dismisses my question with a laugh, then takes my arm and we sit together inside the Grand Commune. Food will not be served for a few hours, and we are alone with the richly paneled walls and wooden tables. “I’m surprised you haven’t found a wealthy comte, or a rich merchant in the Palais-Royal.”
“Are you talking to Curtius?” I demand. “How would I have time for the Salon if I were caring for a husband and children?”
“You might find a husband who doesn’t want children.”
“Are there men who don’t want heirs?”
My brother thinks about this. “You don’t have any desire for marriage?”
“Not if it means giving up my work. And it will. Children will come, and how will I tutor, or make models, or promote? He will want me by the fireside, knitting bonnets and pouring tea.”
“It’s hard for a woman, isn’t it?”
“Are you feeling sorry for me,” I tease, “now that you’re courting Abrielle and neglecting to write?”
He smiles. “A little. Here.” He hands me his single letter.
“That’s all your news?”
“It’s long,” he says, then adds swiftly, “but promise you’ll burn it as soon as you’re done.”
“And all of mine.” It goes without saying that none of them must be shared with Edmund. “Will you show these to Johann?”
“If you want me to. I think he can keep secrets. Are there things in these he shouldn’t read?”
“No.” I lower my voice. Though we’re alone, there must be cooks in the kitchen. “It’s just the news I’ve heard of the Estates-General. The princesse is convinced that Robespierre wishes to overthrow the king.”
“If she knew that he dines with the Duc in your salon, it would be the end of our careers.”
“Well, she’ll never know it from me. And the Duc wouldn’t say.”
“Robespierre might talk.”
“No. Their paths will never cross.” I am sure of this. “Not unless it’s in front of Rousseau’s grave.”
My brother finds this amusing. “He’s odd, isn’t he? Funny that he should be the one to stir up their passions. I suppose he quotes a great deal from his idol?”
“Every chance he gets.” I repeat, “ ‘There can be no patriotism without liberty, no liberty without virtue, no virtue without citizens; create citizens, and you have everything you need; without them, you will have nothing but debased slaves.…’ He wants a country with citizens, not subjects.”
My brother’s eyes have gone wide. “He should be careful.”
“Why? He has nothing to lose. He borrowed coats from Curtius before leaving Paris. He doesn’t have a single livre to his name.”
“He has freedom. And he must have a family.”
“The king would never arrest them.” I tell Wolfgang about my meeting with Louis XVI. How certain he is of the people’s goodness, and how he wishes to make a speech to inspire them.
My brother shakes his head. “Then I hope he feels inspired to hear more from Robespierre.”
A SMALL CROWD is waiting for me when I return to the Boulevard du Temple. Curtius must have told our neighbors that I was coming, and they have all turned up to hear the news. There are Henri and Jacques, Yachin and his father, even the butcher and his portly wife. More people appear as I descend from the carriage, and Curtius proudly leads them up the stairs to our salon. There is no time to inspect the exhibit or see the new room Henri and Curtius have built. Everyone wants to hear what’s happening in Versailles. I tell them what I know without compromising Madame Elisabeth or the king.
“We’ve been hearing a great deal about Robespierre, that he’s become an important voice in the Assembly,” Henri’s brother says. “He was such an unassuming man.”
Everyone around Jacques Charles agrees.
“They say his voice carries across the entire hall and he holds the Third Estate in a sort of trance. Do you think that’s what they’re in?” the butcher asks.
“They are simply tired of shouldering the financial burden for the entire nation,” I say.
The men begin to debate: Will the votes be counted by order or by head? Will the privileges of the first two
