“Hello, Grand-mère.” Marcus sounded as awkward as he felt. He tried to cover his nerves by taking her hand and kissing it. He had missed her more than he had realized.

“Marcus.” Ysabeau’s tone was cool, as if a stiff breeze had blown across the Seine. Happily, no one but Marcus noticed. She turned to Paine. “Mr. Paine. Welcome back. How is your leg? Does it still swell in the mornings?”

“It is much better, madame,” Paine replied. “And how is our dear comte?”

“Busy with his affairs, as usual,” Ysabeau said. “As you know, he takes a keen interest in how America fares during its youth.” She slid a glance in Marcus’s direction.

“You must thank him for sending me a copy of Mr. Burke’s letter to Monsieur Depont,” Paine replied.

“Philippe felt sure that you would want to know what was being said in the clubs of London.” Ysabeau lowered herself into a waiting chair. It was deep, as chairs needed to be in order to support the birdcages women wore around their waists, not to mention all the silk and satin that was draped over them. Veronique might make do with a straight-backed stool and a cushion, but not Ysabeau.

“I am crafting my reply to Burke now, madame,” Paine said, his body angled toward her. “He intends to publish the letter, and I wish to have an answer at the ready. There is no reason France cannot become a republic, as America did. May I impose on the comte further, and visit your house to discuss it with him? There is no man whose opinion I value more.”

Marcus looked from Ysabeau to Paine and back to Ysabeau.

“Of course, Mr. Paine. The doors of the Hôtel de Clermont are open to all with serious political views.” Ysabeau’s green eyes fixed on Paine as though he were a plump raven she was considering for her next meal. “What are your thoughts on the marquis’s celebration?”

“It is not mine, madame,” Lafayette protested. “It belongs to the nation.”

Ysabeau held up her hand, stopping his words. “You are too modest, Gilbert. Without you there would be no nation. We would still be living in the kingdom of France, and the peasants would still be paying their tithes to the church. Isn’t that right, Marcus?”

Marcus hesitated, then nodded. Veronique and Marat would not agree, but Lafayette had drafted the new constitution, after all.

“I think the people need to see what they are being asked to believe in—democracy, in this case,” Paine said. “What harm can there be in a parade?”

“Exactly!” Lafayette said, nodding his head enthusiastically. “It is not a ‘vain spectacle,’ as Monsieur Marat claims. It is a ceremony of harmony, a ritual of fraternity.”

The clock on Lafayette’s mantel struck four. Marcus leaped to his feet, shocked to see so much time had passed. He was late.

“I must go,” he said. “I have an appointment with friends.”

“My carriage can take you,” Lafayette said, ringing a bell that rested by his elbow.

“My appointment is just down the road, and I’ll be faster on foot.” Marcus was strangely reluctant to leave Paine, and for a moment he considered changing his plans, but his loyalty prevented it. “Good-bye, Mr. Paine.”

“I hope our paths cross again, Monsieur de Clermont,” Paine said. “At the marquis’s celebration, if not before.”

“I’d like that, Mr. Paine. Grand-mère.” Marcus bowed to Ysabeau.

“Don’t be a stranger,” his grandmother said, the corners of her mouth lifted into the shadow of a smile.

Marcus headed for the door as quickly as he could without alarming Mr. Paine.

“Marcus?” Ysabeau called after him.

Marcus turned.

His grandmother had picked up the red wool hat that Marcus had left on his chair in his haste to get away. It was a visible sign of Marcus’s allegiance to the ideals of the Revolution.

“Don’t forget your cap,” she said.

* * *

—

CAFÉ PROCOPE WAS PACKED with hot, sweating bodies. There was barely room to stand, and Marcus was like a salmon swimming against the current as he tried to make his way from the door to the back corner where his friends were waiting.

“Marcus? Is that you?” Fanny waved her hand in greeting. She was wearing a plain silk gown in revolutionary white. Her unpowdered hair was tumbling around her shoulders in the new style being adopted by all the finest ladies, and she wore a version of Marcus’s distinctive red hat—hers made by one of the most expensive milliners in town.

“Fanny!” Having successfully avoided his family for almost two months, Marcus could not seem to avoid them today. “You’re far from home.”

“This is the Quartier Latin, not Africa,” Fanny replied, making rapid progress toward him through a series of deft moves that included treading upon others’ feet, throwing elbows into ribs, and batting her eyes at the men. “The traffic through town is terrible, of course, so I abandoned my carriage on the Pont Neuf and walked the rest of the way. What brings you here?”

“I live here,” Marcus said, his eyes searching the room for Veronique.

“With Danton and his band of murderers and thieves?” Fanny shook her head. “Charles said you and Veronique were crammed into a tiny attic with six other creatures. It sounded dreadful. You should move back into my house. It’s far more comfortable.”

“Veronique and I moved out of the attic.” Marcus gave up searching for Veronique with his eyes and tried using his nose and ears instead. “We’re living in a second-floor apartment now. One closer to the Sorbonne.”

“Who is your tailor these days?” Fanny wondered, looking him over. “Given the cut of that coat, you look as if you belong in Lafayette’s salon, not the Cordeliers Club. Except for the cap, of course.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed at her mention of the marquis. “What are you and Ysabeau up to, Fanny?”

“Ysabeau?” Fanny shrugged. “You’re spending too much time with Marat. Now you think there are conspirators behind every door. You know perfectly well that we don’t get along.”

It was true that his grandmother and his aunt were usually shooting conversational barbs into each other at family dinners, but Marcus couldn’t help but feel he was being managed.

“Liberté! Égalité! Fraternité!”

The chant of the Cordeliers Club echoed through the room. It had started in the back corner, where Marcus had agreed to meet Marat.

The crowds parted and Jean-Paul emerged from them, the soft tip of his red cap falling over one eye, holding a fist of paper in his hand. Georges Danton was behind him, ready to escort the daemon to whatever underground lair he would occupy tonight. With them was Veronique.

“Marcus!” Veronique’s cheeks were flushed. She was wearing the authentic revolutionary dress on which Fanny’s fashionable version was modeled. “We expected you hours ago.”

“I was delayed,” Marcus apologized. He moved to kiss her.

Veronique sniffed his coat.

“You’ve been with Ysabeau,” she said. “You promised—”

“Ysabeau was visiting Lafayette,” Marcus said, interrupting Veronique in his haste to reassure her that he had not broken his word. “I had no idea that she would be there.”

“Lafayette! You see, I told you he cannot be trusted,” Marat muttered to Danton. “He is a de Clermont, and like all aristocrats, he would rather slit the belly of your wife and rip out the heart of your infant son than give up one of his privileges.”

“You know that isn’t true, Jean-Paul.” Marcus couldn’t believe what his friend was saying.

“Come away,” Fanny murmured, tugging on his sleeve. “There’s no point in arguing with him.”

A knot of spectators was gathering around them, roughly dressed and well into their third or fourth drinks. Most of them were filthy, rags tied around their necks to absorb the sweat and grime as though they had come straight from doing menial labor at the Champs de Mars.

“Wake up, Marcus,” Marat said, his tone vicious. “Those people are not your true family. Lafayette is not your friend. They want only to use you for their own purposes, to further their own designs. You are a de Clermont puppet, jerking every time one of them pulls your strings.”