“What happened to the family?” Marie, as usual, had reached directly into his mind and plucked out his thoughts with her uncanny insight. She held his gaze with her earnest brown eyes as the baby began to cry on her hip.
“Pardon?” Jean-Luc tugged on the hem of his jacket.
“You said you’re going out to a nobleman’s house in Place Royale to collect the family’s goods. What happened to the family?”
“I’m not sure.” He shifted his weight, looking back down toward the papers. “They are already gone, from the sound of it. Prison?” Fortunately, he usually visited the grand houses after the occupants had been dragged from their chambers and thrown in the dungeons at the Conciergerie, La Force, or Les Carmes. He’d heard the rumors—reports from colleagues who had visited the prisons. He suspected that if he were to witness the conditions for himself, his current troubles sleeping would grow much worse. Best not to dwell on such negative thoughts, he reminded himself. Best to remember the noble work they were doing, bringing liberty, equality, and fraternity to a people long subjugated by inept Bourbon despots and their callous aristocrats.
Sighing, he looped his portefeuille under his arm and crossed the room toward his wife. “I’m late.”
“We could always go…back…you know.” Marie avoided her husband’s gaze now, bouncing the baby in an attempt to calm him. “If it’s getting to be too much. If it’s not what you thought it would be.”
Jean-Luc froze, staring at his wife in disbelief; was she really suggesting that they leave Paris? That they give up on la Révolution?
“I only mean to say…” she stammered, “the troubles sleeping. The work.” She waved her free arm around the cramped room. “This place.”
He dropped his papers onto the table and stepped toward her, placing his arms around her and the baby. “Marie, please.” He was far too tired to have this argument. Not now. Sighing, unsure of what else to say, he spoke softly: “I know you hate this garret.”
“It’s not just the garret I hate.”
“I won’t be in this position much longer.”
She cocked a dark eyebrow. “That’s what you said—”
“But it’s true now. I will speak to Gavreau soon. I’ll ask for more meaningful work. Work where I can finally offer a contribution and find some higher purpose.” His voice sagged as he spoke, and his eyes dropped to the floor. Marie’s features softened a little, and she sighed. After a long moment of silence, Jean-Luc inhaled deeply and arched his shoulders back, as if fortifying himself. “Come now, we cannot give up so quickly, Marie. Freedom is a blessing. But before it can be enjoyed, it must be secured, and that battle is not easily won.”
The baby’s cries grew louder, and Marie turned her focus back to their son. After a pause, she shrugged. “You’d better go. Your carriage is waiting.”
Jean-Luc leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her and the baby one more time. She looked up at him; she’d lost the suntanned pink of her cheeks, but she still spoke with the lilting southern accent. Still dressed like a southerner in her white linen, and cooked like one, too, even if she complained she couldn’t find a decent jar of saffron in the entire city. He couldn’t imagine any of this without her.
“I’ll be home for supper.” He left the apartment, shutting the door behind him. On the other side of the door, he heard the baby grow calm as his wife cooed, her voice more soothing than music. Jean-Luc looked down and noticed that his hands were empty.
“I forgot something.” He opened the door and rushed back into the room. She looked at him, the baby balancing on her hip as she cleared the breakfast dishes. “Your papers,” she said, nodding, familiar with his forgetfulness.
“And this, as well.” He bounded toward her and planted a kiss on her lips. “Yes, there was no way I could leave without that,” he said, his worry and tension slackening as he kissed her again, as he felt her own frame growing less rigid in his arms. She let him kiss her.
“I hate that I’m late, otherwise I would—” His hands traveled to her hips, and he felt the softness of her flesh beneath her starched cotton skirt.
Her hand swatted his. “Get going, you lech, before I go nick that carriage for myself and ride away from this stinking city.”
The carriage driver looked up when Jean-Luc emerged onto the sunny street, the man’s expression remaining bored as he studied his low-level passenger.
“Citizeness Grocque.” Jean-Luc leaned his hat toward his scowling neighbor, greeting the tavern keeper’s wife with the title that had recently been mandated by law. Madame Grocque stood hunched over a broom on the doorstep. “Lovely to have a bit of a breeze today, is it not, citizeness?” Sensing he would get no reply, Jean-Luc did not pause as he strode toward the waiting carriage.