Everywhere, so-called enemies of the Republic were being sniffed out and summarily denounced. Paris was all too quick—even eager—to see evil anywhere it was suggested. Proof, as Sophie had pointed out, no longer carried much weight in the courts of the dreaded Revolutionary Tribunal.
The group separated shortly after dinner. André, who had sipped far too much wine at dinner as a tonic against his gloom, felt unsteady on his feet as he offered to escort Sophie home.
“I think it’s I who shall need to see you safely home tonight,” Sophie remarked. They had just wished farewell to Remy and LaSalle.
“Perhaps I was a bit too generous with the wine.” André nodded, trying to shake off his oppressive drowsiness as they paused before the glistening Seine, its surface shivering like the cold passersby. “But I remember my honor, and I shall still see you safely home, Madame Vincennes. Shall we?”
“No,” Sophie replied, hooking her arm through his. “No, I don’t want to go home tonight.” She looked up at him eagerly, expectantly.
“Well, where do you want to go?” André asked, his mouth suddenly dry, his fuzzy mind sharpening into focus; did she mean what he hoped she meant?
Sophie looked up at him. “Take me to your house.”
“Are…are you certain?” André stammered. Sophie nodded, a wordless reply.
His heart racing, André guided them in the direction of the Marais and his boardinghouse. After a few minutes, feeling suddenly playful as he walked beside her, he asked: “What will poor old Parsy do if she discovers that you are not in bed?”
Sophie laughed, nuzzling up against André for warmth against the whipping wind of late February. “Perhaps sweet old Parsy is not as innocent as she appears. She was young once, after all.”
When they reached his lodgings, André shut the door and locked it. He noted with fresh embarrassment that he had not tidied up, hardly expecting that Sophie would be in his room. But there was nothing to be done about that now. He hurried to build a small fire and then lit two candles. When the room had warmed, Sophie slid out of her cloak, tossing it over the back of his desk chair. He liked that; seeing her items among his. It felt undeniably right.
“Here we are,” she said.
“Here we are,” André repeated. “I wish I had some wine to offer you.”
“I think we’ve both had enough wine tonight.”
“Perhaps you are right.”
Sophie stepped closer to him, lacing her fingers through his. André lifted her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on its soft surface. And then he kissed the top of her head, catching a whiff of the sweet fragrance of her hair. He shut his eyes, overwhelmed by her presence. By the fact of her, here, in his room.
Glancing up at him, she asked: “So, what would you like for your birthday?”
André laughed, bringing his hands to the small of her back. Making an exaggerated show of considering the question, he looked down at her. “I have an idea.”
“Oh?” Her head fell to the side, her face angling up at him with an expression that André found enthralling.
André looked into her eyes, feeling as though he could never grow tired of the clear, light blue of them. When he leaned forward, she met his kiss, eagerly. Their lips pressed into one another, and their bodies followed. Her hands so much surer than his own, she pulled him free of his coat and began to unbutton his shirt. André thought he would go mad when he felt her soft hands on his bare skin, and he drew her in even closer, craving closeness now with every inch of her body. She pulled him down onto the bed, and he forced himself to stop for a moment. “Wait,” he said, his voice raspy between his even breaths. “You know, I would marry you, Sophie, if you would have me. I would marry you tomorrow. I would have married you yesterday.”
“I know you would have,” she said, breaking from his gaze. She remained still, silent. Eventually, she sighed. “But we can’t. At least, not while my uncle is around.”
“Sophie.” André took her chin in his fingers and lifted her eyes once more to meet his. He wanted her to understand how truly and entirely he meant his next statement: “Know that I am devoted to you, as devoted as ever a husband could be.”
“I know.” She looked at him now through a thin veil of tears. “I’ve been married before, you remember. I know how little it can mean.” She took his hand, using his fingers to wipe her tears.
“Why are you crying, my love?” André asked.
“I finally know,” she sighed, pressing her face into his shoulder, moistening it with her tears. “I finally know how I should have felt on my wedding night.”